Dead Soulsby

Nikolai Vasilievich GogolTranslation

byD. J. HogarthIntroduction

byJohn Cournos

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3

Gogol

Dead Soulsby

Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol

Translation

by

D. J. Hogarth

Introduction

by

John Cournos

Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol, born at Sorochintsky, Russia, on

31st March 1809. Obtained government post at St. Pe-

tersburg and later an appointment at the university. Lived

in Rome from 1836 to 1848. Died on 21st February 1852.

INTRODUCTION

Dead Souls, first published in 1842, is the great prose

classic of Russia. That amazing institution, “the Russian

novel,” not only began its career with this unfinished

masterpiece by Nikolai Vasil’evich Gogol, but practically

all the Russian masterpieces that have come since have

grown out of it, like the limbs of a single tree. Dostoieffsky

goes so far as to bestow this tribute upon an earlier work

by the same author, a short story entitled The Cloak; this

idea has been wittily expressed by another compatriot,

who says: “We have all issued out of Gogol’s Cloak.”

Dead Souls, which bears the word “Poem” upon the title

page of the original, has been generally compared to Don

Quixote and to the Pickwick Papers, while E. M. Vogue

places its author somewhere between Cervantes and Le

4

Dead SoulsSage. However considerable the influences of Cervantes

and Dickens may have been—the first in the matter of

structure, the other in background, humour, and detail of

characterisation—the predominating and distinguishing

quality of the work is undeniably something foreign to

both and quite peculiar to itself; something which, for

want of a better term, might be called the quality of the

Russian soul. The English reader familiar with the works of

Dostoieffsky, Turgenev, and Tolstoi, need hardly be told

what this implies; it might be defined in the words of the

French critic just named as “a tendency to pity.” One

might indeed go further and say that it implies a certain

tolerance of one’s characters even though they be, in the

conventional sense, knaves, products, as the case might

be, of conditions or circumstance, which after all is the

thing to be criticised and not the man. But pity and tol-

erance are rare in satire, even in clash with it, producing

in the result a deep sense of tragic humour. It is this that

makes of Dead Souls a unique work, peculiarly Gogolian,

peculiarly Russian, and distinct from its author’s Spanish

and English masters.

Still more profound are the contradictions to be seen in

the author’s personal character; and unfortunately they

prevented him from completing his work. The trouble is

that he made his art out of life, and when in his final

years he carried his struggle, as Tolstoi did later, back into

life, he repented of all he had written, and in the frenzy of

a wakeful night burned all his manuscripts, including the

second part of Dead Souls, only fragments of which were

saved. There was yet a third part to be written. Indeed,

the second part had been written and burned twice. Ac-

counts differ as to why he had burned it finally. Religious

remorse, fury at adverse criticism, and despair at not reach-

ing ideal perfection are among the reasons given. Again it

is said that he had destroyed the manuscript with the

others inadvertently.

The poet Pushkin, who said of Gogol that “behind his

laughter you feel the unseen tears,” was his chief friend

and inspirer. It was he who suggested the plot of Dead

Souls as well as the plot of the earlier work The Revisor,

which is almost the only comedy in Russian. The impor-

tance of both is their introduction of the social element

5

Gogolin Russian literature, as Prince Kropotkin points out. Both

hold up the mirror to Russian officialdom and the effects

it has produced on the national character. The plot of

Dead Souls is simple enough, and is said to have been

suggested by an actual episode.

It was the day of serfdom in Russia, and a man’s standing

was often judged by the numbers of “souls” he possessed.

There was a periodical census of serfs, say once every ten or

twenty years. This being the case, an owner had to pay a

tax on every “soul” registered at the last census, though

some of the serfs might have died in the meantime. Never-

theless, the system had its material advantages, inasmuch

as an owner might borrow money from a bank on the “dead

souls” no less than on the living ones. The plan of Chichikov,

Gogol’s hero-villain, was therefore to make a journey through

Russia and buy up the “dead souls,” at reduced rates of

course, saving their owners the government tax, and ac-

quiring for himself a list of fictitious serfs, which he meant

to mortgage to a bank for a considerable sum. With this

money he would buy an estate and some real life serfs, and

make the beginning of a fortune.

Obviously, this plot, which is really no plot at all but

merely a ruse to enable Chichikov to go across Russia in a

troika, with Selifan the coachman as a sort of Russian

Sancho Panza, gives Gogol a magnificent opportunity to

reveal his genius as a painter of Russian panorama, peopled

with characteristic native types commonplace enough but

drawn in comic relief. “The comic,” explained the author

yet at the beginning of his career, “is hidden everywhere,

only living in the midst of it we are not conscious of it;

but if the artist brings it into his art, on the stage say, we

shall roll about with laughter and only wonder we did not

notice it before.” But the comic in Dead Souls is merely

external. Let us see how Pushkin, who loved to laugh,

regarded the work. As Gogol read it aloud to him from the

manuscript the poet grew more and more gloomy and at

last cried out: “God! What a sad country Russia is!” And

later he said of it: “Gogol invents nothing; it is the simple

truth, the terrible truth.”

The work on one hand was received as nothing less than

an exposure of all Russia—what would foreigners think of

it? The liberal elements, however, the critical Belinsky

6

Dead Soulsamong them, welcomed it as a revelation, as an omen of

a freer future. Gogol, who had meant to do a service to

Russia and not to heap ridicule upon her, took the criti-

cisms of the Slavophiles to heart; and he palliated his

critics by promising to bring about in the succeeding parts

of his novel the redemption of Chichikov and the other

“knaves and blockheads.” But the “Westerner” Belinsky

and others of the liberal camp were mistrustful. It was

about this time (1847) that Gogol published his Corre-

spondence with Friends, and aroused a literary contro-

versy that is alive to this day. Tolstoi is to be found among

his apologists.

Opinions as to the actual significance of Gogol’s mas-

terpiece differ. Some consider the author a realist who has

drawn with meticulous detail a picture of Russia; others,

Merejkovsky among them, see in him a great symbolist;

the very title Dead Souls is taken to describe the living of

Russia as well as its dead. Chichikov himself is now gener-

ally regarded as a universal character. We find an American

professor, William Lyon Phelps*, of Yale, holding the opinion

that “no one can travel far in America without meeting

scores of Chichikovs; indeed, he is an accurate portrait of

the American promoter, of the successful commercial trav-

eller whose success depends entirely not on the real value

and usefulness of his stock-in-trade, but on his knowl-

edge of human nature and of the persuasive power of his

tongue.” This is also the opinion held by Prince Kropotkin*,

who says: “Chichikov may buy dead souls, or railway shares,

or he may collect funds for some charitable institution, or

look for a position in a bank, but he is an immortal inter-

national type; we meet him everywhere; he is of all lands

and of all times; he but takes different forms to suit the

requirements of nationality and time.”

Again, the work bears an interesting relation to Gogol

himself. A romantic, writing of realities, he was appalled

at the commonplaces of life, at finding no outlet for his

love of colour derived from his Cossack ancestry. He realised

that he had drawn a host of “heroes,” “one more com-

monplace than another, that there was not a single palli-

ating circumstance, that there was not a single place where

*Essays on Russian Novelists. Macmillan. *Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature. Duckworth and Co.

7

Gogolthe reader might find pause to rest and to console him-

self, and that when he had finished the book it was as

though he had walked out of an oppressive cellar into the

open air.” He felt perhaps inward need to redeem Chichikov;

in Merejkovsky’s opinion he really wanted to save his own

soul, but had succeeded only in losing it. His last years

were spent morbidly; he suffered torments and ran from

place to place like one hunted; but really always running

from himself. Rome was his favourite refuge, and he re-

turned to it again and again. In 1848, he made a pilgrim-

age to the Holy Land, but he could find no peace for his

soul. Something of this mood had reflected itself even

much earlier in the Memoirs of a Madman: “Oh, little

mother, save your poor son! Look how they are torment-

ing him… . There’s no place for him on earth! He’s being

driven! … Oh, little mother, take pity on thy poor child.”

All the contradictions of Gogol’s character are not to be

disposed of in a brief essay. Such a strange combination

of the tragic and the comic was truly seldom seen in one

man. He, for one, realised that “it is dangerous to jest

with laughter.” “Everything that I laughed at became sad.”

“And terrible,” adds Merejkovsky. But earlier his humour

was lighter, less tinged with the tragic; in those days

Pushkin never failed to be amused by what Gogol had

brought to read to him. Even Revizor (1835), with its

tragic undercurrent, was a trifle compared to Dead Souls,

so that one is not astonished to hear that not only did

the Tsar, Nicholas I, give permission to have it acted, in

spite of its being a criticism of official rottenness, but

laughed uproariously, and led the applause. Moreover, he

gave Gogol a grant of money, and asked that its source

should not be revealed to the author lest “he might feel

obliged to write from the official point of view.”

Gogol was born at Sorotchinetz, Little Russia, in March

1809. He left college at nineteen and went to St. Peters-

burg, where he secured a position as copying clerk in a

government department. He did not keep his position long,

yet long enough to store away in his mind a number of

bureaucratic types which proved useful later. He quite

suddenly started for America with money given to him by

his mother for another purpose, but when he got as far as

Lubeck he turned back. He then wanted to become an

8

Dead Soulsactor, but his voice proved not strong enough. Later he

wrote a poem which was unkindly received. As the copies

remained unsold, he gathered them all up at the various

shops and burned them in his room.

His next effort, Evenings at the Farm of Dikanka (1831)

was more successful. It was a series of gay and colourful

pictures of Ukraine, the land he knew and loved, and if he

is occasionally a little over romantic here and there, he

also achieves some beautifully lyrical passages. Then came

another even finer series called Mirgorod, which won the

admiration of Pushkin. Next he planned a “History of Little

Russia” and a “History of the Middle Ages,” this last work

to be in eight or nine volumes. The result of all this study

was a beautiful and short Homeric epic in prose, called

Taras Bulba. His appointment to a professorship in history

was a ridiculous episode in his life. After a brilliant first

lecture, in which he had evidently said all he had to say,

he settled to a life of boredom for himself and his pupils.

When he resigned he said joyously: “I am once more a free

Cossack.” Between 1834 and 1835 he produced a new

series of stories, including his famous Cloak, which may

be regarded as the legitimate beginning of the Russian

novel.

Gogol knew little about women, who played an equally

minor role in his life and in his books. This may be partly

because his personal appearance was not prepossessing.

He is described by a contemporary as “a little man with

legs too short for his body. He walked crookedly; he was

clumsy, ill-dressed, and rather ridiculous-looking, with his

long lock of hair flapping on his forehead, and his large

prominent nose.”

From 1835 Gogol spent almost his entire time abroad;

some strange unrest—possibly his Cossack blood—pos-

sessed him like a demon, and he never stopped anywhere

very long. After his pilgrimage in 1848 to Jerusalem, he

returned to Moscow, his entire possessions in a little bag;

these consisted of pamphlets, critiques, and newspaper

articles mostly inimical to himself. He wandered about

with these from house to house. Everything he had of

value he gave away to the poor. He ceased work entirely.

According to all accounts he spent his last days in praying

and fasting. Visions came to him. His death, which came

9

Gogolin 1852, was extremely fantastic. His last words, uttered

in a loud frenzy, were: “A ladder! Quick, a ladder!” This

call for a ladder—”a spiritual ladder,” in the words of

Merejkovsky—had been made on an earlier occasion by a

certain Russian saint, who used almost the same language.

“I shall laugh my bitter laugh”* was the inscription placed

on Gogol’s grave.

John Cournos

Evenings on the Farm near the Dikanka, 1829-31; Mirgorod,

1831-33; Taras Bulba, 1834; Arabesques (includes tales,

The Portrait and A Madman’s Diary), 1831-35; The Cloak,

1835; The Revizor (The Inspector-General), 1836; Dead

Souls, 1842; Correspondence with Friends, 1847.

ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS: Cossack Tales (The Night of

Christmas Eve, Tarass Boolba), trans. by G. Tolstoy, 1860;

St. John’s Eve and Other Stories, trans. by Isabel F.

Hapgood, New York, Crowell, 1886; Taras Bulba: Also St.

John’s Eve and Other Stories, London, Vizetelly, 1887;

Taras Bulba, trans. by B. C. Baskerville, London, Scott,

1907; The Inspector: a Comedy, Calcutta, 1890; The In-

spector-General, trans. by A. A. Sykes, London, Scott, 1892;

Revizor, trans. for the Yale Dramatic Association by Max S.

Mandell, New Haven, Conn., 1908; Home Life in Russia

(adaptation of Dead Souls), London, Hurst, 1854;

Tchitchikoff’s Journey’s; or Dead Souls, trans. by Isabel F.

Hapgood, New York, Crowell, 1886; Dead Souls, London,

Vizetelly, 1887; Dead Souls, London, Maxwell 1887; Medi-

tations on the Divine Liturgy, trans. by L. Alexeieff, Lon-

*This is generally referred to in the Russian criticisms ofGogol as a quotation from Jeremiah. It appears upon in-vestigation, however, that it actually occurs only in theSlavonic version from the Greek, and not in the Russiantranslation made direct from the Hebrew.

10

Dead Soulsdon, A. R. Mowbray and Co., 1913.

LIVES, etc.: (Russian) Kotlyarevsky (N. A.), 1903; Shenrok

(V. I.), Materials for a Biography, 1892; (French) Leger

(L.), Nicholas Gogol, 1914.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE FIRST PORTION OF THIS WORK

Second Edition published in 1846

From the Author to the Reader

Reader, whosoever or wheresoever you be, and whatsoever

be your station—whether that of a member of the higher

ranks of society or that of a member of the plainer walks

of life—I beg of you, if God shall have given you any skill

in letters, and my book shall fall into your hands, to ex-

tend to me your assistance.

For in the book which lies before you, and which, prob-

ably, you have read in its first edition, there is portrayed

a man who is a type taken from our Russian Empire. This

man travels about the Russian land and meets with folk of

every condition—from the nobly-born to the humble toiler.

Him I have taken as a type to show forth the vices and

the failings, rather than the merits and the virtues, of the

commonplace Russian individual; and the characters which

revolve around him have also been selected for the pur-

pose of demonstrating our national weaknesses and short-

comings. As for men and women of the better sort, I

propose to portray them in subsequent volumes. Probably

much of what I have described is improbable and does

not happen as things customarily happen in Russia; and

the reason for that is that for me to learn all that I have

wished to do has been impossible, in that human life is

not sufficiently long to become acquainted with even a

hundredth part of what takes place within the borders of

the Russian Empire. Also, carelessness, inexperience, and

lack of time have led to my perpetrating numerous errors

and inaccuracies of detail; with the result that in every

line of the book there is something which calls for correc-

tion. For these reasons I beg of you, my reader, to act

11

Gogolalso as my corrector. Do not despise the task, for, how-

ever superior be your education, and however lofty your

station, and however insignificant, in your eyes, my book,

and however trifling the apparent labour of correcting

and commenting upon that book, I implore you to do as

I have said. And you too, O reader of lowly education and

simple status, I beseech you not to look upon yourself as

too ignorant to be able in some fashion, however small,

to help me. Every man who has lived in the world and

mixed with his fellow men will have remarked something

which has remained hidden from the eyes of others; and

therefore I beg of you not to deprive me of your com-

ments, seeing that it cannot be that, should you read my

book with attention, you will have nothing to say at some

point therein.

For example, how excellent it would be if some reader

who is sufficiently rich in experience and the knowledge of

life to be acquainted with the sort of characters which I

have described herein would annotate in detail the book,

without missing a single page, and undertake to read it

precisely as though, laying pen and paper before him, he

were first to peruse a few pages of the work, and then to

recall his own life, and the lives of folk with whom he has

come in contact, and everything which he has seen with

his own eyes or has heard of from others, and to proceed

to annotate, in so far as may tally with his own experience

or otherwise, what is set forth in the book, and to jot

down the whole exactly as it stands pictured to his memory,

and, lastly, to send me the jottings as they may issue

from his pen, and to continue doing so until he has cov-

ered the entire work! Yes, he would indeed do me a vital

service! Of style or beauty of expression he would need to

take no account, for the value of a book lies in its truth

and its actuality rather than in its wording. Nor would he

need to consider my feelings if at any point he should feel

minded to blame or to upbraid me, or to demonstrate the

harm rather than the good which has been done through

any lack of thought or verisimilitude of which I have been

guilty. In short, for anything and for everything in the

way of criticism I should be thankful.

Also, it would be an excellent thing if some reader in

the higher walks of life, some person who stands remote,

12

Dead Soulsboth by life and by education, from the circle of folk

which I have pictured in my book, but who knows the life

of the circle in which he himself revolves, would under-

take to read my work in similar fashion, and methodically

to recall to his mind any members of superior social classes

whom he has met, and carefully to observe whether there

exists any resemblance between one such class and an-

other, and whether, at times, there may not be repeated

in a higher sphere what is done in a lower, and likewise to

note any additional fact in the same connection which

may occur to him (that is to say, any fact pertaining to

the higher ranks of society which would seem to confirm

or to disprove his conclusions), and, lastly, to record that

fact as it may have occurred within his own experience,

while giving full details of persons (of individual manners,

tendencies, and customs) and also of inanimate surround-

ings (of dress, furniture, fittings of houses, and so forth).

For I need knowledge of the classes in question, which are

the flower of our people. In fact, this very reason—the

reason that I do not yet know Russian life in all its as-

pects, and in the degree to which it is necessary for me to

know it in order to become a successful author—is what

has, until now, prevented me from publishing any subse-

quent volumes of this story.

Again, it would be an excellent thing if some one who is

endowed with the faculty of imagining and vividly pictur-

ing to himself the various situations wherein a character

may be placed, and of mentally following up a character’s

career in one field and another—by this I mean some one

who possesses the power of entering into and developing

the ideas of the author whose work he may be reading—

would scan each character herein portrayed, and tell me

how each character ought to have acted at a given junc-

ture, and what, to judge from the beginnings of each

character, ought to have become of that character later,

and what new circumstances might be devised in connec-

tion therewith, and what new details might advantageously

be added to those already described. Honestly can I say

that to consider these points against the time when a new

edition of my book may be published in a different and a

better form would give me the greatest possible pleasure.

One thing in particular would I ask of any reader who

13

Gogolmay be willing to give me the benefit of his advice. That

is to say, I would beg of him to suppose, while recording

his remarks, that it is for the benefit of a man in no way

his equal in education, or similar to him in tastes and

ideas, or capable of apprehending criticisms without full

explanation appended, that he is doing so. Rather would I

ask such a reader to suppose that before him there stands

a man of incomparably inferior enlightenment and school-

ing—a rude country bumpkin whose life, throughout, has

been passed in retirement—a bumpkin to whom it is nec-

essary to explain each circumstance in detail, while never

forgetting to be as simple of speech as though he were a

child, and at every step there were a danger of employing

terms beyond his understanding. Should these precautions

be kept constantly in view by any reader undertaking to

annotate my book, that reader’s remarks will exceed in

weight and interest even his own expectations, and will

bring me very real advantage.

Thus, provided that my earnest request be heeded by

my readers, and that among them there be found a few

kind spirits to do as I desire, the following is the manner

in which I would request them to transmit their notes for

my consideration. Inscribing the package with my name,

let them then enclose that package in a second one ad-

dressed either to the Rector of the University of St. Pe-

tersburg or to Professor Shevirev of the University of Mos-

cow, according as the one or the other of those two cities

may be the nearer to the sender.

Lastly, while thanking all journalists and litterateurs for

their previously published criticisms of my book—criticisms

which, in spite of a spice of that intemperance and preju-

dice which is common to all humanity, have proved of the

greatest use both to my head and to my heart—I beg of

such writers again to favour me with their reviews. For in

all sincerity I can assure them that whatsoever they may be

pleased to say for my improvement and my instruction will

be received by me with naught but gratitude.

14

Dead Souls

DEAD SOULSPART I

CHAPTER I

To the door of an inn in the provincial town of N. there

drew up a smart britchka—a light spring-carriage of the

sort affected by bachelors, retired lieutenant-colonels,

staff-captains, land-owners possessed of about a hundred

souls, and, in short, all persons who rank as gentlemen of

the intermediate category. In the britchka was seated such

a gentleman—a man who, though not handsome, was not

ill-favoured, not over-fat, and not over-thin. Also, though

not over-elderly, he was not over-young. His arrival pro-

duced no stir in the town, and was accompanied by no

particular incident, beyond that a couple of peasants who

happened to be standing at the door of a dramshop ex-

changed a few comments with reference to the equipage

rather than to the individual who was seated in it. “Look

at that carriage,” one of them said to the other. “Think

you it will be going as far as Moscow?” “I think it will,”

replied his companion. “But not as far as Kazan, eh?”

“No, not as far as Kazan.” With that the conversation

ended. Presently, as the britchka was approaching the inn,

it was met by a young man in a pair of very short, very

tight breeches of white dimity, a quasi-fashionable

frockcoat, and a dickey fastened with a pistol-shaped

bronze tie-pin. The young man turned his head as he passed

the britchka and eyed it attentively; after which he clapped

his hand to his cap (which was in danger of being re-

moved by the wind) and resumed his way. On the vehicle

reaching the inn door, its occupant found standing there

to welcome him the polevoi, or waiter, of the establish-

ment—an individual of such nimble and brisk movement

that even to distinguish the character of his face was

impossible. Running out with a napkin in one hand and

his lanky form clad in a tailcoat, reaching almost to the

nape of his neck, he tossed back his locks, and escorted

the gentleman upstairs, along a wooden gallery, and so to

the bedchamber which God had prepared for the

15

Gogolgentleman’s reception. The said bedchamber was of quite

ordinary appearance, since the inn belonged to the spe-

cies to be found in all provincial towns—the species

wherein, for two roubles a day, travellers may obtain a

room swarming with black-beetles, and communicating

by a doorway with the apartment adjoining. True, the

doorway may be blocked up with a wardrobe; yet behind

it, in all probability, there will be standing a silent, mo-

tionless neighbour whose ears are burning to learn every

possible detail concerning the latest arrival. The inn’s ex-

terior corresponded with its interior. Long, and consisting

only of two storeys, the building had its lower half desti-

tute of stucco; with the result that the dark-red bricks,

originally more or less dingy, had grown yet dingier under

the influence of atmospheric changes. As for the upper

half of the building, it was, of course, painted the usual

tint of unfading yellow. Within, on the ground floor, there

stood a number of benches heaped with horse-collars,

rope, and sheepskins; while the window-seat accommo-

dated a sbitentshik*, cheek by jowl with a samovar**—

the latter so closely resembling the former in appearance

that, but for the fact of the samovar possessing a pitch-

black lip, the samovar and the sbitentshik might have

been two of a pair.

During the traveller’s inspection of his room his luggage

was brought into the apartment. First came a portman-

teau of white leather whose raggedness indicated that the

receptacle had made several previous journeys. The bear-

ers of the same were the gentleman’s coachman, Selifan

(a little man in a large overcoat), and the gentleman’s

valet, Petrushka—the latter a fellow of about thirty, clad

in a worn, over-ample jacket which formerly had graced

his master’s shoulders, and possessed of a nose and a pair

of lips whose coarseness communicated to his face rather

a sullen expression. Behind the portmanteau came a small

dispatch-box of redwood, lined with birch bark, a boot-

case, and (wrapped in blue paper) a roast fowl; all of

which having been deposited, the coachman departed to

look after his horses, and the valet to establish himself in

the little dark anteroom or kennel where already he had

stored a cloak, a bagful of livery, and his own peculiar*An urn for brewing honey tea.**An urn for brewing ordinary tea.

16

Dead Soulssmell. Pressing the narrow bedstead back against the wall,

he covered it with the tiny remnant of mattress—a rem-

nant as thin and flat (perhaps also as greasy) as a pan-

cake—which he had managed to beg of the landlord of

the establishment.

While the attendants had been thus setting things

straight the gentleman had repaired to the common parlour.

The appearance of common parlours of the kind is known

to every one who travels. Always they have varnished walls

which, grown black in their upper portions with tobacco

smoke, are, in their lower, grown shiny with the friction of

customers’ backs—more especially with that of the backs

of such local tradesmen as, on market-days, make it their

regular practice to resort to the local hostelry for a glass

of tea. Also, parlours of this kind invariably contain smutty

ceilings, an equally smutty chandelier, a number of pen-

dent shades which jump and rattle whenever the waiter

scurries across the shabby oilcloth with a trayful of glasses

(the glasses looking like a flock of birds roosting by the

seashore), and a selection of oil paintings. In short, there

are certain objects which one sees in every inn. In the

present case the only outstanding feature of the room

was the fact that in one of the paintings a nymph was

portrayed as possessing breasts of a size such as the reader

can never in his life have beheld. A similar caricaturing of

nature is to be noted in the historical pictures (of un-

known origin, period, and creation) which reach us—some-

times through the instrumentality of Russian magnates

who profess to be connoisseurs of art—from Italy; owing

to the said magnates having made such purchases solely

on the advice of the couriers who have escorted them.

To resume, however—our traveller removed his cap, and

divested his neck of a parti-coloured woollen scarf of the

kind which a wife makes for her husband with her own

hands, while accompanying the gift with interminable in-

junctions as to how best such a garment ought to be

folded. True, bachelors also wear similar gauds, but, in

their case, God alone knows who may have manufactured

the articles! For my part, I cannot endure them. Having

unfolded the scarf, the gentleman ordered dinner, and

whilst the various dishes were being got ready—cabbage

soup, a pie several weeks old, a dish of marrow and peas,

17

Gogola dish of sausages and cabbage, a roast fowl, some salted

cucumber, and the sweet tart which stands perpetually

ready for use in such establishments; whilst, I say, these

things were either being warmed up or brought in cold,

the gentleman induced the waiter to retail certain frag-

ments of tittle-tattle concerning the late landlord of the

hostelry, the amount of income which the hostelry pro-

duced, and the character of its present proprietor. To the

last-mentioned inquiry the waiter returned the answer in-

variably given in such cases—namely, “My master is a

terribly hard man, sir.” Curious that in enlightened Russia

so many people cannot even take a meal at an inn with-

out chattering to the attendant and making free with

him! Nevertheless not ALL the questions which the gentle-

man asked were aimless ones, for he inquired who was

Governor of the town, who President of the Local Council,

and who Public Prosecutor. In short, he omitted no single

official of note, while asking also (though with an air of

detachment) the most exact particulars concerning the

landowners of the neighbourhood. Which of them, he in-

quired, possessed serfs, and how many of them? How far

from the town did those landowners reside? What was the

character of each landowner, and was he in the habit of

paying frequent visits to the town? The gentleman also

made searching inquiries concerning the hygienic condi-

tion of the countryside. Was there, he asked, much sick-

ness about—whether sporadic fever, fatal forms of ague,

smallpox, or what not? Yet, though his solicitude con-

cerning these matters showed more than ordinary curios-

ity, his bearing retained its gravity unimpaired, and from

time to time he blew his nose with portentous fervour.

Indeed, the manner in which he accomplished this latter

feat was marvellous in the extreme, for, though that mem-

ber emitted sounds equal to those of a trumpet in inten-

sity, he could yet, with his accompanying air of guileless

dignity, evoke the waiter’s undivided respect—so much

so that, whenever the sounds of the nose reached that

menial’s ears, he would shake back his locks, straighten

himself into a posture of marked solicitude, and inquire

afresh, with head slightly inclined, whether the gentle-

man happened to require anything further. After dinner

the guest consumed a cup of coffee, and then, seating

18

Dead Soulshimself upon the sofa, with, behind him, one of those

wool-covered cushions which, in Russian taverns, resemble

nothing so much as a cobblestone or a brick, fell to snor-

ing; whereafter, returning with a start to consciousness,

he ordered himself to be conducted to his room, flung

himself at full length upon the bed, and once more slept

soundly for a couple of hours. Aroused, eventually, by the

waiter, he, at the latter’s request, inscribed a fragment of

paper with his name, his surname, and his rank (for com-

munication, in accordance with the law, to the police):

and on that paper the waiter, leaning forward from the

corridor, read, syllable by syllable: “Paul Ivanovitch

Chichikov, Collegiate Councillor—Landowner—Travelling on

Private Affairs.” The waiter had just time to accomplish

this feat before Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov set forth to

inspect the town. Apparently the place succeeded in sat-

isfying him, and, to tell the truth, it was at least up to

the usual standard of our provincial capitals. Where the

staring yellow of stone edifices did not greet his eye he

found himself confronted with the more modest grey of

wooden ones; which, consisting, for the most part, of one

or two storeys (added to the range of attics which provin-

cial architects love so well), looked almost lost amid the

expanses of street and intervening medleys of broken or

half-finished partition-walls. At other points evidence of

more life and movement was to be seen, and here the

houses stood crowded together and displayed dilapidated,

rain-blurred signboards whereon boots of cakes or pairs of

blue breeches inscribed “Arshavski, Tailor,” and so forth,

were depicted. Over a shop containing hats and caps was

written “Vassili Thedorov, Foreigner”; while, at another

spot, a signboard portrayed a billiard table and two play-

ers—the latter clad in frockcoats of the kind usually af-

fected by actors whose part it is to enter the stage during

the closing act of a piece, even though, with arms sharply

crooked and legs slightly bent, the said billiard players

were taking the most careful aim, but succeeding only in

making abortive strokes in the air. Each emporium of the

sort had written over it: “This is the best establishment

of its kind in the town.” Also, al fresco in the streets

there stood tables heaped with nuts, soap, and ginger-

bread (the latter but little distinguishable from the soap),

19

Gogoland at an eating-house there was displayed the sign of a

plump fish transfixed with a gaff. But the sign most fre-

quently to be discerned was the insignia of the State, the

double-headed eagle (now replaced, in this connection,

with the laconic inscription “Dramshop”). As for the pav-

ing of the town, it was uniformly bad.

The gentleman peered also into the municipal gardens,

which contained only a few sorry trees that were poorly

selected, requiring to be propped with oil-painted, trian-

gular green supports, and able to boast of a height no

greater than that of an ordinary walking-stick. Yet re-

cently the local paper had said (apropos of a gala) that,

“Thanks to the efforts of our Civil Governor, the town has

become enriched with a pleasaunce full of umbrageous,

spaciously-branching trees. Even on the most sultry day

they afford agreeable shade, and indeed gratifying was it

to see the hearts of our citizens panting with an impulse

of gratitude as their eyes shed tears in recognition of all

that their Governor has done for them!”

Next, after inquiring of a gendarme as to the best ways

and means of finding the local council, the local law-

courts, and the local Governor, should he (Chichikov) have

need of them, the gentleman went on to inspect the river

which ran through the town. En route he tore off a notice

affixed to a post, in order that he might the more conve-

niently read it after his return to the inn. Also, he be-

stowed upon a lady of pleasant exterior who, escorted by

a footman laden with a bundle, happened to be passing

along a wooden sidewalk a prolonged stare. Lastly, he

threw around him a comprehensive glance (as though to

fix in his mind the general topography of the place) and

betook himself home. There, gently aided by the waiter,

he ascended the stairs to his bedroom, drank a glass of

tea, and, seating himself at the table, called for a candle;

which having been brought him, he produced from his

pocket the notice, held it close to the flame, and conned

its tenour—slightly contracting his right eye as he did so.

Yet there was little in the notice to call for remark. All

that it said was that shortly one of Kotzebue’s* plays

would be given, and that one of the parts in the play was

to be taken by a certain Monsieur Poplevin, and another

*A German dramatist (1761-1819) who also filled sundryposts in the service of the Russian Government.

20

Dead Soulsby a certain Mademoiselle Ziablova, while the remaining

parts were to be filled by a number of less important

personages. Nevertheless the gentleman perused the no-

tice with careful attention, and even jotted down the

prices to be asked for seats for the performance. Also, he

remarked that the bill had been printed in the press of the

Provincial Government. Next, he turned over the paper, in

order to see if anything further was to be read on the

reverse side; but, finding nothing there, he refolded the

document, placed it in the box which served him as a

receptacle for odds and ends, and brought the day to a

close with a portion of cold veal, a bottle of pickles, and

a sound sleep.

The following day he devoted to paying calls upon the

various municipal officials—a first, and a very respectful,

visit being paid to the Governor. This personage turned

out to resemble Chichikov himself in that he was neither

fat nor thin. Also, he wore the riband of the order of Saint

Anna about his neck, and was reported to have been rec-

ommended also for the star. For the rest, he was large and

good-natured, and had a habit of amusing himself with

occasional spells of knitting. Next, Chichikov repaired to

the Vice-Governor’s, and thence to the house of the Pub-

lic Prosecutor, to that of the President of the Local Coun-

cil, to that of the Chief of Police, to that of the Commis-

sioner of Taxes, and to that of the local Director of State

Factories. True, the task of remembering every big-wig in

this world of ours is not a very easy one; but at least our

visitor displayed the greatest activity in his work of pay-

ing calls, seeing that he went so far as to pay his respects

also to the Inspector of the Municipal Department of

Medicine and to the City Architect. Thereafter he sat

thoughtfully in his britchka—plunged in meditation on

the subject of whom else it might be well to visit. How-

ever, not a single magnate had been neglected, and in

conversation with his hosts he had contrived to flatter

each separate one. For instance to the Governor he had

hinted that a stranger, on arriving in his, the Governor’s

province, would conceive that he had reached Paradise, so

velvety were the roads. “Governors who appoint capable

subordinates,” had said Chichikov, “are deserving of the

most ample meed of praise.” Again, to the Chief of Police

21

Gogolour hero had passed a most gratifying remark on the sub-

ject of the local gendarmery; while in his conversation

with the Vice-Governor and the President of the Local

Council (neither of whom had, as yet, risen above the

rank of State Councillor) he had twice been guilty of the

gaucherie of addressing his interlocutors with the title of

“Your Excellency”—a blunder which had not failed to de-

light them. In the result the Governor had invited him to

a reception the same evening, and certain other officials

had followed suit by inviting him, one of them to dinner,

a second to a tea-party, and so forth, and so forth.

Of himself, however, the traveller had spoken little; or,

if he had spoken at any length, he had done so in a gen-

eral sort of way and with marked modesty. Indeed, at

moments of the kind his discourse had assumed some-

thing of a literary vein, in that invariably he had stated

that, being a worm of no account in the world, he was

deserving of no consideration at the hands of his fellows;

that in his time he had undergone many strange experi-

ences; that subsequently he had suffered much in the

cause of Truth; that he had many enemies seeking his life;

and that, being desirous of rest, he was now engaged in

searching for a spot wherein to dwell—wherefore, having

stumbled upon the town in which he now found himself,

he had considered it his bounden duty to evince his re-

spect for the chief authorities of the place. This, and no

more, was all that, for the moment, the town succeeded

in learning about the new arrival. Naturally he lost no

time in presenting himself at the Governor’s evening party.

First, however, his preparations for that function occu-

pied a space of over two hours, and necessitated an at-

tention to his toilet of a kind not commonly seen. That is

to say, after a brief post-grandial nap he called for soap

and water, and spent a considerable period in the task of

scrubbing his cheeks (which, for the purpose, he sup-

ported from within with his tongue) and then of drying

his full, round face, from the ears downwards, with a towel

which he took from the waiter’s shoulder. Twice he snorted

into the waiter’s countenance as he did this, and then he

posted himself in front of the mirror, donned a false shirt-

front, plucked out a couple of hairs which were protrud-

ing from his nose, and appeared vested in a frockcoat of

22

Dead Soulsbilberry-coloured check. Thereafter driving through broad

streets sparsely lighted with lanterns, he arrived at the

Governor’s residence to find it illuminated as for a ball.

Barouches with gleaming lamps, a couple of gendarmes

posted before the doors, a babel of postillions’ cries—

nothing of a kind likely to be impressive was wanting;

and, on reaching the salon, the visitor actually found him-

self obliged to close his eyes for a moment, so strong was

the mingled sheen of lamps, candles, and feminine ap-

parel. Everything seemed suffused with light, and every-

where, flitting and flashing, were to be seen black coats—

even as on a hot summer’s day flies revolve around a sugar

loaf while the old housekeeper is cutting it into cubes

before the open window, and the children of the house

crowd around her to watch the movements of her rugged

hands as those members ply the smoking pestle; and airy

squadrons of flies, borne on the breeze, enter boldly, as

though free of the house, and, taking advantage of the

fact that the glare of the sunshine is troubling the old

lady’s sight, disperse themselves over broken and unbro-

ken fragments alike, even though the lethargy induced by

the opulence of summer and the rich shower of dainties

to be encountered at every step has induced them to

enter less for the purpose of eating than for that of show-

ing themselves in public, of parading up and down the

sugar loaf, of rubbing both their hindquarters and their

fore against one another, of cleaning their bodies under

the wings, of extending their forelegs over their heads

and grooming themselves, and of flying out of the win-

dow again to return with other predatory squadrons. In-

deed, so dazed was Chichikov that scarcely did he realise

that the Governor was taking him by the arm and present-

ing him to his (the Governor’s) lady. Yet the newly-arrived

guest kept his head sufficiently to contrive to murmur

some such compliment as might fittingly come from a

middle-aged individual of a rank neither excessively high

nor excessively low. Next, when couples had been formed

for dancing and the remainder of the company found it-

self pressed back against the walls, Chichikov folded his

arms, and carefully scrutinised the dancers. Some of the

ladies were dressed well and in the fashion, while the re-

mainder were clad in such garments as God usually be-

23

Gogolstows upon a provincial town. Also here, as elsewhere, the

men belonged to two separate and distinct categories;

one of which comprised slender individuals who, flitting

around the ladies, were scarcely to be distinguished from

denizens of the metropolis, so carefully, so artistically,

groomed were their whiskers, so presentable their oval,

clean-shaven faces, so easy the manner of their dancing

attendance upon their womenfolk, so glib their French

conversation as they quizzed their female companions. As

for the other category, it comprised individuals who, stout,

or of the same build as Chichikov (that is to say, neither

very portly nor very lean), backed and sidled away from

the ladies, and kept peering hither and thither to see

whether the Governor’s footmen had set out green tables

for whist. Their features were full and plump, some of

them had beards, and in no case was their hair curled or

waved or arranged in what the French call “the devil-may-

care” style. On the contrary, their heads were either close-

cropped or brushed very smooth, and their faces were

round and firm. This category represented the more re-

spectable officials of the town. In passing, I may say that

in business matters fat men always prove superior to their

leaner brethren; which is probably the reason why the

latter are mostly to be found in the Political Police, or

acting as mere ciphers whose existence is a purely hope-

less, airy, trivial one. Again, stout individuals never take a

back seat, but always a front one, and, wheresoever it be,

they sit firmly, and with confidence, and decline to budge

even though the seat crack and bend with their weight.

For comeliness of exterior they care not a rap, and there-

fore a dress coat sits less easily on their figures than is the

case with figures of leaner individuals. Yet invariably fat

men amass the greater wealth. In three years’ time a thin

man will not have a single serf whom he has left unpledged;

whereas—well, pray look at a fat man’s fortunes, and what

will you see? First of all a suburban villa, and then a larger

suburban villa, and then a villa close to a town, and lastly

a country estate which comprises every amenity! That is

to say, having served both God and the State, the stout

individual has won universal respect, and will end by retir-

ing from business, reordering his mode of life, and be-

coming a Russian landowner—in other words, a fine gentle-

24

Dead Soulsman who dispenses hospitality, lives in comfort and luxury,

and is destined to leave his property to heirs who are

purposing to squander the same on foreign travel.

That the foregoing represents pretty much the gist of

Chichikov’s reflections as he stood watching the company

I will not attempt to deny. And of those reflections the

upshot was that he decided to join himself to the stouter

section of the guests, among whom he had already

recognised several familiar faces—namely, those of the

Public Prosecutor (a man with beetling brows over eyes

which seemed to be saying with a wink, “Come into the

next room, my friend, for I have something to say to

you”—though, in the main, their owner was a man of

grave and taciturn habit), of the Postmaster (an insignifi-

cant-looking individual, yet a would-be wit and a philoso-

pher), and of the President of the Local Council (a man of

much amiability and good sense). These three personages

greeted Chichikov as an old acquaintance, and to their

salutations he responded with a sidelong, yet a sufficiently

civil, bow. Also, he became acquainted with an extremely

unctuous and approachable landowner named Manilov, and

with a landowner of more uncouth exterior named

Sobakevitch—the latter of whom began the acquaintance

by treading heavily upon Chichikov’s toes, and then beg-

ging his pardon. Next, Chichikov received an offer of a

“cut in” at whist, and accepted the same with his usual

courteous inclination of the head. Seating themselves at

a green table, the party did not rise therefrom till supper

time; and during that period all conversation between the

players became hushed, as is the custom when men have

given themselves up to a really serious pursuit. Even the

Postmaster—a talkative man by nature—had no sooner

taken the cards into his hands than he assumed an expres-

sion of profound thought, pursed his lips, and retained

this attitude unchanged throughout the game. Only when

playing a court card was it his custom to strike the table

with his fist, and to exclaim (if the card happened to be a

queen), “Now, old popadia*!” and (if the card happened

to be a king), “Now, peasant of Tambov!” To which ejacu-

lations invariably the President of the Local Council re-

torted, “Ah, I have him by the ears, I have him by the

*Priest’s wife.

25

Gogolears!” And from the neighbourhood of the table other

strong ejaculations relative to the play would arise, inter-

posed with one or another of those nicknames which par-

ticipants in a game are apt to apply to members of the

various suits. I need hardly add that, the game over, the

players fell to quarrelling, and that in the dispute our

friend joined, though so artfully as to let every one see

that, in spite of the fact that he was wrangling, he was

doing so only in the most amicable fashion possible. Never

did he say outright, “You played the wrong card at such

and such a point.” No, he always employed some such

phrase as, “You permitted yourself to make a slip, and

thus afforded me the honour of covering your deuce.”

Indeed, the better to keep in accord with his antagonists,

he kept offering them his silver-enamelled snuff-box (at

the bottom of which lay a couple of violets, placed there

for the sake of their scent). In particular did the new-

comer pay attention to landowners Manilov and

Sobakevitch; so much so that his haste to arrive on good

terms with them led to his leaving the President and the

Postmaster rather in the shade. At the same time, certain

questions which he put to those two landowners evinced

not only curiosity, but also a certain amount of sound

intelligence; for he began by asking how many peasant

souls each of them possessed, and how their affairs hap-

pened at present to be situated, and then proceeded to

enlighten himself also as their standing and their families.

Indeed, it was not long before he had succeeded in fairly

enchanting his new friends. In particular did Manilov—a

man still in his prime, and possessed of a pair of eyes

which, sweet as sugar, blinked whenever he laughed—

find himself unable to make enough of his enchanter. Clasp-

ing Chichikov long and fervently by the hand, he besought

him to do him, Manilov, the honour of visiting his country

house (which he declared to lie at a distance of not more

than fifteen versts from the boundaries of the town); and

in return Chichikov averred (with an exceedingly affable

bow and a most sincere handshake) that he was prepared

not only to fulfil his friend’s behest, but also to look upon

the fulfilling of it as a sacred duty. In the same way

Sobakevitch said to him laconically: “And do you pay me

a visit,” and then proceeded to shuffle a pair of boots of

26

Dead Soulssuch dimensions that to find a pair to correspond with

them would have been indeed difficult—more especially

at the present day, when the race of epic heroes is begin-

ning to die out in Russia.

Next day Chichikov dined and spent the evening at the

house of the Chief of Police—a residence where, three

hours after dinner, every one sat down to whist, and re-

mained so seated until two o’clock in the morning. On

this occasion Chichikov made the acquaintance of, among

others, a landowner named Nozdrev—a dissipated little

fellow of thirty who had no sooner exchanged three or

four words with his new acquaintance than he began to

address him in the second person singular. Yet although

he did the same to the Chief of Police and the Public

Prosecutor, the company had no sooner seated themselves

at the card-table than both the one and the other of

these functionaries started to keep a careful eye upon

Nozdrev’s tricks, and to watch practically every card which

he played. The following evening Chichikov spent with the

President of the Local Council, who received his guests—

even though the latter included two ladies—in a greasy

dressing-gown. Upon that followed an evening at the Vice-

Governor’s, a large dinner party at the house of the Com-

missioner of Taxes, a smaller dinner-party at the house of

the Public Prosecutor (a very wealthy man), and a subse-

quent reception given by the Mayor. In short, not an hour

of the day did Chichikov find himself forced to spend at

home, and his return to the inn became necessary only for

the purposes of sleeping. Somehow or other he had landed

on his feet, and everywhere he figured as an experienced

man of the world. No matter what the conversation chanced

to be about, he always contrived to maintain his part in

the same. Did the discourse turn upon horse-breeding,

upon horse-breeding he happened to be peculiarly well-

qualified to speak. Did the company fall to discussing

well-bred dogs, at once he had remarks of the most perti-

nent kind possible to offer. Did the company touch upon

a prosecution which had recently been carried out by the

Excise Department, instantly he showed that he too was

not wholly unacquainted with legal affairs. Did an opinion

chance to be expressed concerning billiards, on that sub-

ject too he was at least able to avoid committing a blun-

27

Gogolder. Did a reference occur to virtue, concerning virtue he

hastened to deliver himself in a way which brought tears

to every eye. Did the subject in hand happen to be the

distilling of brandy—well, that was a matter concerning

which he had the soundest of knowledge. Did any one

happen to mention Customs officials and inspectors, from

that moment he expatiated as though he too had been

both a minor functionary and a major. Yet a remarkable

fact was the circumstance that he always contrived to

temper his omniscience with a certain readiness to give

way, a certain ability so to keep a rein upon himself that

never did his utterances become too loud or too soft, or

transcend what was perfectly befitting. In a word, he was

always a gentleman of excellent manners, and every offi-

cial in the place felt pleased when he saw him enter the

door. Thus the Governor gave it as his opinion that

Chichikov was a man of excellent intentions; the Public

Prosecutor, that he was a good man of business; the Chief

of Gendarmery, that he was a man of education; the Presi-

dent of the Local Council, that he was a man of breeding

and refinement; and the wife of the Chief of Gendarmery,

that his politeness of behaviour was equalled only by his

affability of bearing. Nay, even Sobakevitch—who as a

rule never spoke well of any one—said to his lanky wife

when, on returning late from the town, he undressed and

betook himself to bed by her side: “My dear, this evening,

after dining with the Chief of Police, I went on to the

Governor’s, and met there, among others, a certain Paul

Ivanovitch Chichikov, who is a Collegiate Councillor and a

very pleasant fellow.” To this his spouse replied “Hm!”

and then dealt him a hearty kick in the ribs.

Such were the flattering opinions earned by the new-

comer to the town; and these opinions he retained until

the time when a certain speciality of his, a certain scheme

of his (the reader will learn presently what it was), plunged

the majority of the townsfolk into a sea of perplexity.

28

Dead SoulsCHAPTER II

For more than two weeks the visitor lived amid a round of

evening parties and dinners; wherefore he spent (as the

saying goes) a very pleasant time. Finally he decided to

extend his visits beyond the urban boundaries by going

and calling upon landowners Manilov and Sobakevitch,

seeing that he had promised on his honour to do so. Yet

what really incited him to this may have been a more

essential cause, a matter of greater gravity, a purpose

which stood nearer to his heart, than the motive which I

have just given; and of that purpose the reader will learn

if only he will have the patience to read this prefatory

narrative (which, lengthy though it be, may yet develop

and expand in proportion as we approach the denouement

with which the present work is destined to be crowned).

One evening, therefore, Selifan the coachman received

orders to have the horses harnessed in good time next

morning; while Petrushka received orders to remain be-

hind, for the purpose of looking after the portmanteau

and the room. In passing, the reader may care to become

more fully acquainted with the two serving-men of whom

I have spoken. Naturally, they were not persons of much

note, but merely what folk call characters of secondary, or

even of tertiary, importance. Yet, despite the fact that

the springs and the thread of this romance will not de-

pend upon them, but only touch upon them, and occa-

sionally include them, the author has a passion for cir-

cumstantiality, and, like the average Russian, such a de-

sire for accuracy as even a German could not rival. To

what the reader already knows concerning the personages

in hand it is therefore necessary to add that Petrushka

usually wore a cast-off brown jacket of a size too large for

him, as also that he had (according to the custom of

individuals of his calling) a pair of thick lips and a very

prominent nose. In temperament he was taciturn rather

than loquacious, and he cherished a yearning for self-

education. That is to say, he loved to read books, even

though their contents came alike to him whether they

were books of heroic adventure or mere grammars or litur-

gical compendia. As I say, he perused every book with an

equal amount of attention, and, had he been offered a

29

Gogolwork on chemistry, would have accepted that also. Not

the words which he read, but the mere solace derived

from the act of reading, was what especially pleased his

mind; even though at any moment there might launch

itself from the page some devil-sent word whereof he could

make neither head nor tail. For the most part, his task of

reading was performed in a recumbent position in the

anteroom; which circumstance ended by causing his mat-

tress to become as ragged and as thin as a wafer. In

addition to his love of poring over books, he could boast

of two habits which constituted two other essential fea-

tures of his character—namely, a habit of retiring to rest

in his clothes (that is to say, in the brown jacket above-

mentioned) and a habit of everywhere bearing with him

his own peculiar atmosphere, his own peculiar smell—a

smell which filled any lodging with such subtlety that he

needed but to make up his bed anywhere, even in a room

hitherto untenanted, and to drag thither his greatcoat

and other impedimenta, for that room at once to assume

an air of having been lived in during the past ten years.

Nevertheless, though a fastidious, and even an irritable,

man, Chichikov would merely frown when his nose caught

this smell amid the freshness of the morning, and exclaim

with a toss of his head: “The devil only knows what is up

with you! Surely you sweat a good deal, do you not? The

best thing you can do is to go and take a bath.” To this

Petrushka would make no reply, but, approaching, brush

in hand, the spot where his master’s coat would be pen-

dent, or starting to arrange one and another article in

order, would strive to seem wholly immersed in his work.

Yet of what was he thinking as he remained thus silent?

Perhaps he was saying to himself: “My master is a good

fellow, but for him to keep on saying the same thing forty

times over is a little wearisome.” Only God knows and

sees all things; wherefore for a mere human being to know

what is in the mind of a servant while his master is scold-

ing him is wholly impossible. However, no more need be

said about Petrushka. On the other hand, Coachman

Selifan—

But here let me remark that I do not like engaging the

reader’s attention in connection with persons of a lower

class than himself; for experience has taught me that we

30

Dead Soulsdo not willingly familiarise ourselves with the lower or-

ders—that it is the custom of the average Russian to

yearn exclusively for information concerning persons on

the higher rungs of the social ladder. In fact, even a bow-

ing acquaintance with a prince or a lord counts, in his

eyes, for more than do the most intimate of relations with

ordinary folk. For the same reason the author feels appre-

hensive on his hero’s account, seeing that he has made

that hero a mere Collegiate Councillor—a mere person

with whom Aulic Councillors might consort, but upon whom

persons of the grade of full General* would probably be-

stow one of those glances proper to a man who is cringing

at their august feet. Worse still, such persons of the grade

of General are likely to treat Chichikov with studied negli-

gence—and to an author studied negligence spells death.

However, in spite of the distressfulness of the foregoing

possibilities, it is time that I returned to my hero. After

issuing, overnight, the necessary orders, he awoke early,

washed himself, rubbed himself from head to foot with a

wet sponge (a performance executed only on Sundays—

and the day in question happened to be a Sunday), shaved

his face with such care that his cheeks issued of abso-

lutely satin-like smoothness and polish, donned first his

bilberry-coloured, spotted frockcoat, and then his bear-

skin overcoat, descended the staircase (attended, through-

out, by the waiter) and entered his britchka. With a loud

rattle the vehicle left the inn-yard, and issued into the

street. A passing priest doffed his cap, and a few urchins

in grimy shirts shouted, “Gentleman, please give a poor

orphan a trifle!” Presently the driver noticed that a sturdy

young rascal was on the point of climbing onto the

splashboard; wherefore he cracked his whip and the britchka

leapt forward with increased speed over the cobblestones.

At last, with a feeling of relief, the travellers caught sight

of macadam ahead, which promised an end both to the

cobblestones and to sundry other annoyances. And, sure

enough, after his head had been bumped a few more times

against the boot of the conveyance, Chichikov found him-

self bowling over softer ground. On the town receding

into the distance, the sides of the road began to be varied

with the usual hillocks, fir trees, clumps of young pine,*In this case the term General refers to a civil grade equiva-lent to the military rank of the same title.

31

Gogoltrees with old, scarred trunks, bushes of wild juniper, and

so forth, Presently there came into view also strings of

country villas which, with their carved supports and grey

roofs (the latter looking like pendent, embroidered table-

cloths), resembled, rather, bundles of old faggots. Like-

wise the customary peasants, dressed in sheepskin jack-

ets, could be seen yawning on benches before their huts,

while their womenfolk, fat of feature and swathed of bo-

som, gazed out of upper windows, and the windows be-

low displayed, here a peering calf, and there the unsightly

jaws of a pig. In short, the view was one of the familiar

type. After passing the fifteenth verst-stone Chichikov

suddenly recollected that, according to Manilov, fifteen

versts was the exact distance between his country house

and the town; but the sixteenth verst stone flew by, and

the said country house was still nowhere to be seen. In

fact, but for the circumstance that the travellers hap-

pened to encounter a couple of peasants, they would have

come on their errand in vain. To a query as to whether the

country house known as Zamanilovka was anywhere in the

neighbourhood the peasants replied by doffing their caps;

after which one of them who seemed to boast of a little

more intelligence than his companion, and who wore a

wedge-shaped beard, made answer:

“Perhaps you mean Manilovka—not Zamanilovka?”

“Yes, yes—Manilovka.”

“Manilovka, eh? Well, you must continue for another

verst, and then you will see it straight before you, on the

right.”

“On the right?” re-echoed the coachman.

“Yes, on the right,” affirmed the peasant. “You are on

the proper road for Manilovka, but Zamanilovka—well,

there is no such place. The house you mean is called

Manilovka because Manilovka is its name; but no house at

all is called Zamanilovka. The house you mean stands there,

on that hill, and is a stone house in which a gentleman

lives, and its name is Manilovka; but ZAmanilovka does

not stand hereabouts, nor ever has stood.”

So the travellers proceeded in search of Manilovka, and,

after driving an additional two versts, arrived at a spot

whence there branched off a by-road. Yet two, three, or

four versts of the by-road had been covered before they

32

Dead Soulssaw the least sign of a two-storied stone mansion. Then it

was that Chichikov suddenly recollected that, when a friend

has invited one to visit his country house, and has said

that the distance thereto is fifteen versts, the distance is

sure to turn out to be at least thirty.

Not many people would have admired the situation of

Manilov’s abode, for it stood on an isolated rise and was

open to every wind that blew. On the slope of the rise lay

closely-mown turf, while, disposed here and there, after

the English fashion, were flower-beds containing clumps

of lilac and yellow acacia. Also, there were a few insignifi-

cant groups of slender-leaved, pointed-tipped birch trees,

with, under two of the latter, an arbour having a shabby

green cupola, some blue-painted wooden supports, and

the inscription “This is the Temple of Solitary Thought.”

Lower down the slope lay a green-coated pond—green-

coated ponds constitute a frequent spectacle in the gar-

dens of Russian landowners; and, lastly, from the foot of

the declivity there stretched a line of mouldy, log-built

huts which, for some obscure reason or another, our hero

set himself to count. Up to two hundred or more did he

count, but nowhere could he perceive a single leaf of

vegetation or a single stick of timber. The only thing to

greet the eye was the logs of which the huts were con-

structed. Nevertheless the scene was to a certain extent

enlivened by the spectacle of two peasant women who,

with clothes picturesquely tucked up, were wading knee-

deep in the pond and dragging behind them, with wooden

handles, a ragged fishing-net, in the meshes of which two

crawfish and a roach with glistening scales were entangled.

The women appeared to have cause of dispute between

themselves—to be rating one another about something.

In the background, and to one side of the house, showed

a faint, dusky blur of pinewood, and even the weather was

in keeping with the surroundings, since the day was nei-

ther clear nor dull, but of the grey tint which may be

noted in uniforms of garrison soldiers which have seen

long service. To complete the picture, a cock, the

recognised harbinger of atmospheric mutations, was

present; and, in spite of the fact that a certain connec-

tion with affairs of gallantry had led to his having had his

head pecked bare by other cocks, he flapped a pair of

33

Gogolwings—appendages as bare as two pieces of bast—and

crowed loudly.

As Chichikov approached the courtyard of the mansion

he caught sight of his host (clad in a green frock coat)

standing on the verandah and pressing one hand to his

eyes to shield them from the sun and so get a better view

of the approaching carriage. In proportion as the britchka

drew nearer and nearer to the verandah, the host’s eyes

assumed a more and more delighted expression, and his

smile a broader and broader sweep.

“Paul Ivanovitch!” he exclaimed when at length Chichikov

leapt from the vehicle. “Never should I have believed that

you would have remembered us!”

The two friends exchanged hearty embraces, and Manilov

then conducted his guest to the drawing-room. During

the brief time that they are traversing the hall, the ante-

room, and the dining-room, let me try to say something

concerning the master of the house. But such an under-

taking bristles with difficulties—it promises to be a far

less easy task than the depicting of some outstanding

personality which calls but for a wholesale dashing of

colours upon the canvas—the colours of a pair of dark,

burning eyes, a pair of dark, beetling brows, a forehead

seamed with wrinkles, a black, or a fiery-red, cloak thrown

backwards over the shoulder, and so forth, and so forth.

Yet, so numerous are Russian serf owners that, though

careful scrutiny reveals to one’s sight a quantity of outre

peculiarities, they are, as a class, exceedingly difficult to

portray, and one needs to strain one’s faculties to the

utmost before it becomes possible to pick out their vari-

ously subtle, their almost invisible, features. In short,

one needs, before doing this, to carry out a prolonged

probing with the aid of an insight sharpened in the acute

school of research.

Only God can say what Manilov’s real character was. A

class of men exists whom the proverb has described as

“men unto themselves, neither this nor that—neither

Bogdan of the city nor Selifan of the village.” And to that

class we had better assign also Manilov. Outwardly he was

presentable enough, for his features were not wanting in

amiability, but that amiability was a quality into which

there entered too much of the sugary element, so that his

34

Dead Soulsevery gesture, his every attitude, seemed to connote an

excess of eagerness to curry favour and cultivate a closer

acquaintance. On first speaking to the man, his ingratiat-

ing smile, his flaxen hair, and his blue eyes would lead one

to say, “What a pleasant, good-tempered fellow he seems!”

yet during the next moment or two one would feel in-

clined to say nothing at all, and, during the third mo-

ment, only to say, “The devil alone knows what he is!”

And should, thereafter, one not hasten to depart, one

would inevitably become overpowered with the deadly sense

of ennui which comes of the intuition that nothing in the

least interesting is to be looked for, but only a series of

wearisome utterances of the kind which are apt to fall

from the lips of a man whose hobby has once been touched

upon. For every man has his hobby. One man’s may be

sporting dogs; another man’s may be that of believing

himself to be a lover of music, and able to sound the art

to its inmost depths; another’s may be that of posing as a

connoisseur of recherche cookery; another’s may be that

of aspiring to play roles of a kind higher than nature has

assigned him; another’s (though this is a more limited

ambition) may be that of getting drunk, and of dreaming

that he is edifying both his friends, his acquaintances,

and people with whom he has no connection at all by

walking arm-in-arm with an Imperial aide-de-camp;

another’s may be that of possessing a hand able to chip

corners off aces and deuces of diamonds; another’s may

be that of yearning to set things straight—in other words,

to approximate his personality to that of a stationmaster

or a director of posts. In short, almost every man has his

hobby or his leaning; yet Manilov had none such, for at

home he spoke little, and spent the greater part of his

time in meditation—though God only knows what that

meditation comprised! Nor can it be said that he took

much interest in the management of his estate, for he

never rode into the country, and the estate practically

managed itself. Whenever the bailiff said to him, “It might

be well to have such-and-such a thing done,” he would

reply, “Yes, that is not a bad idea,” and then go on smok-

ing his pipe—a habit which he had acquired during his

service in the army, where he had been looked upon as an

officer of modesty, delicacy, and refinement. “Yes, it is

35

Gogolnot a bad idea,” he would repeat. Again, whenever a peas-

ant approached him and, rubbing the back of his neck,

said “Barin, may I have leave to go and work for myself,

in order that I may earn my obrok*?” he would snap out,

with pipe in mouth as usual, “Yes, go!” and never trouble

his head as to whether the peasant’s real object might not

be to go and get drunk. True, at intervals he would say,

while gazing from the verandah to the courtyard, and

from the courtyard to the pond, that it would be indeed

splendid if a carriage drive could suddenly materialise,

and the pond as suddenly become spanned with a stone

bridge, and little shops as suddenly arise whence pedlars

could dispense the petty merchandise of the kind which

peasantry most need. And at such moments his eyes would

grow winning, and his features assume an expression of

intense satisfaction. Yet never did these projects pass be-

yond the stage of debate. Likewise there lay in his study a

book with the fourteenth page permanently turned down.

It was a book which he had been reading for the past two

years! In general, something seemed to be wanting in the

establishment. For instance, although the drawing-room

was filled with beautiful furniture, and upholstered in some

fine silken material which clearly had cost no inconsider-

able sum, two of the chairs lacked any covering but bast,

and for some years past the master had been accustomed

to warn his guests with the words, “Do not sit upon these

chairs; they are not yet ready for use.” Another room

contained no furniture at all, although, a few days after

the marriage, it had been said: “My dear, to-morrow let us

set about procuring at least some temporary furniture for

this room.” Also, every evening would see placed upon

the drawing-room table a fine bronze candelabrum, a statu-

ette representative of the Three Graces, a tray inlaid with

mother-of-pearl, and a rickety, lop-sided copper invalide.

Yet of the fact that all four articles were thickly coated

with grease neither the master of the house nor the mis-

tress nor the servants seemed to entertain the least suspi-

cion. At the same time, Manilov and his wife were quite

satisfied with each other. More than eight years had elapsed

since their marriage, yet one of them was for ever offering

his or her partner a piece of apple or a bonbon or a nut,*An annual tax upon peasants, payment of which securedto the payer the right of removal.

36

Dead Soulswhile murmuring some tender something which voiced a

whole-hearted affection. “Open your mouth, dearest”—

thus ran the formula—”and let me pop into it this titbit.”

You may be sure that on such occasions the “dearest

mouth” parted its lips most graciously! For their mutual

birthdays the pair always contrived some “surprise present”

in the shape of a glass receptacle for tooth-powder, or

what not; and as they sat together on the sofa he would

suddenly, and for some unknown reason, lay aside his pipe,

and she her work (if at the moment she happened to be

holding it in her hands) and husband and wife would im-

print upon one another’s cheeks such a prolonged and

languishing kiss that during its continuance you could

have smoked a small cigar. In short, they were what is

known as “a very happy couple.” Yet it may be remarked

that a household requires other pursuits to be engaged in

than lengthy embracings and the preparing of cunning

“surprises.” Yes, many a function calls for fulfilment. For

instance, why should it be thought foolish or low to su-

perintend the kitchen? Why should care not be taken that

the storeroom never lacks supplies? Why should a house-

keeper be allowed to thieve? Why should slovenly and

drunken servants exist? Why should a domestic staff be

suffered in indulge in bouts of unconscionable debauchery

during its leisure time? Yet none of these things were

thought worthy of consideration by Manilov’s wife, for

she had been gently brought up, and gentle nurture, as

we all know, is to be acquired only in boarding schools,

and boarding schools, as we know, hold the three princi-

pal subjects which constitute the basis of human virtue

to be the French language (a thing indispensable to the

happiness of married life), piano-playing (a thing where-

with to beguile a husband’s leisure moments), and that

particular department of housewifery which is comprised

in the knitting of purses and other “surprises.” Neverthe-

less changes and improvements have begun to take place,

since things now are governed more by the personal incli-

nations and idiosyncracies of the keepers of such estab-

lishments. For instance, in some seminaries the regimen

places piano-playing first, and the French language sec-

ond, and then the above department of housewifery; while

in other seminaries the knitting of “surprises” heads the

37

Gogollist, and then the French language, and then the playing

of pianos—so diverse are the systems in force! None the

less, I may remark that Madame Manilov—

But let me confess that I always shrink from saying too

much about ladies. Moreover, it is time that we returned

to our heroes, who, during the past few minutes, have

been standing in front of the drawing-room door, and

engaged in urging one another to enter first.

“Pray be so good as not to inconvenience yourself on

my account,” said Chichikov. “I will follow you.”

“No, Paul Ivanovitch—no! You are my guest.” And

Manilov pointed towards the doorway.

“Make no difficulty about it, I pray,” urged Chichikov.

“I beg of you to make no difficulty about it, but to pass

into the room.”

“Pardon me, I will not. Never could I allow so distin-

guished and so welcome a guest as yourself to take sec-

ond place.”

“Why call me ‘distinguished,’ my dear sir? I beg of you

to proceed.”

“Nay; be you pleased to do so.”

“And why?”

“For the reason which I have stated.” And Manilov smiled

his very pleasantest smile.

Finally the pair entered simultaneously and sideways;

with the result that they jostled one another not a little

in the process.

“Allow me to present to you my wife,” continued Manilov.

“My dear—Paul Ivanovitch.”

Upon that Chichikov caught sight of a lady whom hith-

erto he had overlooked, but who, with Manilov, was now

bowing to him in the doorway. Not wholly of unpleasing

exterior, she was dressed in a well-fitting, high-necked

morning dress of pale-coloured silk; and as the visitor

entered the room her small white hands threw something

upon the table and clutched her embroidered skirt before

rising from the sofa where she had been seated. Not with-

out a sense of pleasure did Chichikov take her hand as,

lisping a little, she declared that she and her husband

were equally gratified by his coming, and that, of late,

not a day had passed without her husband recalling him

to mind.

38

Dead Souls“Yes,” affirmed Manilov; “and every day she has said to

ME: ‘Why does not your friend put in an appearance?’ ‘Wait

a little dearest,’ I have always replied. ‘’Twill not be long

now before he comes.’ And you have come, you have

honoured us with a visit, you have bestowed upon us a

treat—a treat destined to convert this day into a gala

day, a true birthday of the heart.”

The intimation that matters had reached the point of

the occasion being destined to constitute a “true birth-

day of the heart” caused Chichikov to become a little

confused; wherefore he made modest reply that, as a matter

of fact, he was neither of distinguished origin nor distin-

guished rank.

“Ah, you are so,” interrupted Manilov with his fixed and

engaging smile. “You are all that, and more.”

“How like you our town?” queried Madame. “Have you

spent an agreeable time in it?”

“Very,” replied Chichikov. “The town is an exceedingly

nice one, and I have greatly enjoyed its hospitable soci-

ety.”

“And what do you think of our Governor?”

“Yes; is he not a most engaging and dignified person-

age?” added Manilov.

“He is all that,” assented Chichikov. “Indeed, he is a

man worthy of the greatest respect. And how thoroughly

he performs his duty according to his lights! Would that

we had more like him!”

“And the tactfulness with which he greets every one!”

added Manilov, smiling, and half-closing his eyes, like a

cat which is being tickled behind the ears.

“Quite so,” assented Chichikov. “He is a man of the most

eminent civility and approachableness. And what an artist!

Never should I have thought he could have worked the

marvellous household samplers which he has done! Some

specimens of his needlework which he showed me could

not well have been surpassed by any lady in the land!”

“And the Vice-Governor, too—he is a nice man, is he

not?” inquired Manilov with renewed blinkings of the eyes.

“Who? The Vice-Governor? Yes, a most worthy fellow!”

replied Chichikov.

“And what of the Chief of Police? Is it not a fact that he

too is in the highest degree agreeable?”

39

Gogol“Very agreeable indeed. And what a clever, well-read

individual! With him and the Public Prosecutor and the

President of the Local Council I played whist until the

cocks uttered their last morning crow. He is a most excel-

lent fellow.”

“And what of his wife?” queried Madame Manilov. “Is

she not a most gracious personality?”

“One of the best among my limited acquaintance,” agreed

Chichikov.

Nor were the President of the Local Council and the

Postmaster overlooked; until the company had run through

the whole list of urban officials. And in every case those

officials appeared to be persons of the highest possible

merit.

“Do you devote your time entirely to your estate?” asked

Chichikov, in his turn.

“Well, most of it,” replied Manilov; “though also we pay

occasional visits to the town, in order that we may mingle

with a little well-bred society. One grows a trifle rusty if

one lives for ever in retirement.”

“Quite so,” agreed Chichikov.

“Yes, quite so,” capped Manilov. “At the same time, it

would be a different matter if the neighbourhood were a

good one—if, for example, one had a friend with whom

one could discuss manners and polite deportment, or en-

gage in some branch of science, and so stimulate one’s

wits. For that sort of thing gives one’s intellect an airing.

It, it—” At a loss for further words, he ended by remark-

ing that his feelings were apt to carry him away; after

which he continued with a gesture: “What I mean is that,

were that sort of thing possible, I, for one, could find the

country and an isolated life possessed of great attrac-

tions. But, as matters stand, such a thing is not possible.

All that I can manage to do is, occasionally, to read a

little of A Son of the Fatherland.”

With these sentiments Chichikov expressed entire agree-

ment: adding that nothing could be more delightful than

to lead a solitary life in which there should be comprised

only the sweet contemplation of nature and the intermit-

tent perusal of a book.

“Nay, but even that were worth nothing had not one a

friend with whom to share one’s life,” remarked Manilov.

40

Dead Souls“True, true,” agreed Chichikov. “Without a friend, what

are all the treasures in the world? ‘Possess not money,’ a

wise man has said, ‘but rather good friends to whom to

turn in case of need.’”

“Yes, Paul Ivanovitch,” said Manilov with a glance not

merely sweet, but positively luscious—a glance akin to

the mixture which even clever physicians have to render

palatable before they can induce a hesitant patient to

take it. “Consequently you may imagine what happiness—

what perfect happiness, so to speak—the present occa-

sion has brought me, seeing that I am permitted to con-

verse with you and to enjoy your conversation.”

“But what of my conversation?” replied Chichikov. “I am

an insignificant individual, and, beyond that, nothing.”

“Oh, Paul Ivanovitch!” cried the other. “Permit me to

be frank, and to say that I would give half my property to

possess even a portion of the talents which you possess.”

“On the contrary, I should consider it the highest honour

in the world if—”

The lengths to which this mutual outpouring of soul

would have proceeded had not a servant entered to an-

nounce luncheon must remain a mystery.

“I humbly invite you to join us at table,” said Manilov.

“Also, you will pardon us for the fact that we cannot

provide a banquet such as is to be obtained in our metro-

politan cities? We partake of simple fare, according to

Russian custom—we confine ourselves to shtchi*, but we

do so with a single heart. Come, I humbly beg of you.”

After another contest for the honour of yielding prece-

dence, Chichikov succeeded in making his way (in zigzag

fashion) to the dining-room, where they found awaiting

them a couple of youngsters. These were Manilov’s sons,

and boys of the age which admits of their presence at

table, but necessitates the continued use of high chairs.

Beside them was their tutor, who bowed politely and

smiled; after which the hostess took her seat before her

soup plate, and the guest of honour found himself esconsed

between her and the master of the house, while the ser-

vant tied up the boys’ necks in bibs.

“What charming children!” said Chichikov as he gazed at

the pair. “And how old are they?”

*Cabbage soup.

41

Gogol“The eldest is eight,” replied Manilov, “and the younger

one attained the age of six yesterday.”

“Themistocleus,” went on the father, turning to his first-

born, who was engaged in striving to free his chin from

the bib with which the footman had encircled it. On hear-

ing this distinctly Greek name (to which, for some un-

known reason, Manilov always appended the termination

“eus”), Chichikov raised his eyebrows a little, but has-

tened, the next moment, to restore his face to a more

befitting expression.

“Themistocleus,” repeated the father, “tell me which is

the finest city in France.”

Upon this the tutor concentrated his attention upon

Themistocleus, and appeared to be trying hard to catch

his eye. Only when Themistocleus had muttered “Paris”

did the preceptor grow calmer, and nod his head.

“And which is the finest city in Russia?” continued

Manilov.

Again the tutor’s attitude became wholly one of con-

centration.

“St. Petersburg,” replied Themistocleus.

“And what other city?”

“Moscow,” responded the boy.

“Clever little dear!” burst out Chichikov, turning with an

air of surprise to the father. “Indeed, I feel bound to say

that the child evinces the greatest possible potentialities.”

“You do not know him fully,” replied the delighted

Manilov. “The amount of sharpness which he possesses is

extraordinary. Our younger one, Alkid, is not so quick;

whereas his brother—well, no matter what he may hap-

pen upon (whether upon a cowbug or upon a water-beetle

or upon anything else), his little eyes begin jumping out

of his head, and he runs to catch the thing, and to in-

spect it. For HIM I am reserving a diplomatic post.

Themistocleus,” added the father, again turning to his

son, “do you wish to become an ambassador?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Themistocleus, chewing a piece of

bread and wagging his head from side to side.

At this moment the lacquey who had been standing

behind the future ambassador wiped the latter’s nose; and

well it was that he did so, since otherwise an inelegant

and superfluous drop would have been added to the soup.

42

Dead SoulsAfter that the conversation turned upon the joys of a

quiet life—though occasionally it was interrupted by re-

marks from the hostess on the subject of acting and ac-

tors. Meanwhile the tutor kept his eyes fixed upon the

speakers’ faces; and whenever he noticed that they were

on the point of laughing he at once opened his mouth,

and laughed with enthusiasm. Probably he was a man of

grateful heart who wished to repay his employers for the

good treatment which he had received. Once, however,

his features assumed a look of grimness as, fixing his eyes

upon his vis-a-vis, the boys, he tapped sternly upon the

table. This happened at a juncture when Themistocleus

had bitten Alkid on the ear, and the said Alkid, with frown-

ing eyes and open mouth, was preparing himself to sob in

piteous fashion; until, recognising that for such a pro-

ceeding he might possibly be deprived of his plate, he

hastened to restore his mouth to its original expression,

and fell tearfully to gnawing a mutton bone—the grease

from which had soon covered his cheeks.

Every now and again the hostess would turn to Chichikov

with the words, “You are eating nothing—you have in-

deed taken little;” but invariably her guest replied: “Thank

you, I have had more than enough. A pleasant conversa-

tion is worth all the dishes in the world.”

At length the company rose from table. Manilov was in

high spirits, and, laying his hand upon his guest’s shoul-

der, was on the point of conducting him to the drawing-

room, when suddenly Chichikov intimated to him, with a

meaning look, that he wished to speak to him on a very

important matter.

“That being so,” said Manilov, “allow me to invite you

into my study.” And he led the way to a small room

which faced the blue of the forest. “This is my sanc-

tum,” he added.

“What a pleasant apartment!” remarked Chichikov as he

eyed it carefully. And, indeed, the room did not lack a

certain attractiveness. The walls were painted a sort of

blueish-grey colour, and the furniture consisted of four

chairs, a settee, and a table—the latter of which bore a

few sheets of writing-paper and the book of which I have

before had occasion to speak. But the most prominent

feature of the room was tobacco, which appeared in many

43

Gogoldifferent guises—in packets, in a tobacco jar, and in a

loose heap strewn about the table. Likewise, both window

sills were studded with little heaps of ash, arranged, not

without artifice, in rows of more or less tidiness. Clearly

smoking afforded the master of the house a frequent means

of passing the time.

“Permit me to offer you a seat on this settee,” said

Manilov. “Here you will be quieter than you would be in

the drawing-room.”

“But I should prefer to sit upon this chair.”

“I cannot allow that,” objected the smiling Manilov.

“The settee is specially reserved for my guests. Whether

you choose or no, upon it you must sit.”

Accordingly Chichikov obeyed.

“And also let me hand you a pipe.”

“No, I never smoke,” answered Chichikov civilly, and

with an assumed air of regret.

“And why?” inquired Manilov—equally civilly, but with

a regret that was wholly genuine.

“Because I fear that I have never quite formed the habit,

owing to my having heard that a pipe exercises a desic-

cating effect upon the system.”

“Then allow me to tell you that that is mere prejudice.

Nay, I would even go so far as to say that to smoke a pipe

is a healthier practice than to take snuff. Among its mem-

bers our regiment numbered a lieutenant—a most excel-

lent, well-educated fellow—who was simply incapable of

removing his pipe from his mouth, whether at table or

(pardon me) in other places. He is now forty, yet no man

could enjoy better health than he has always done.”

Chichikov replied that such cases were common, since

nature comprised many things which even the finest in-

tellect could not compass.

“But allow me to put to you a question,” he went on in

a tone in which there was a strange—or, at all events,

rather a strange—note. For some unknown reason, also,

he glanced over his shoulder. For some equally unknown

reason, Manilov glanced over his.

“How long is it,” inquired the guest, “since you last

rendered a census return?”

“Oh, a long, long time. In fact, I cannot remember

when it was.”

44

Dead Souls“And since then have many of your serfs died?”

“I do not know. To ascertain that I should need to ask

my bailiff. Footman, go and call the bailiff. I think he will

be at home to-day.”

Before long the bailiff made his appearance. He was a

man of under forty, clean-shaven, clad in a smock, and

evidently used to a quiet life, seeing that his face was of

that puffy fullness, and the skin encircling his slit-like

eyes was of that sallow tint, which shows that the owner

of those features is well acquainted with a feather bed. In

a trice it could be seen that he had played his part in life

as all such bailiffs do—that, originally a young serf of

elementary education, he had married some Agashka of a

housekeeper or a mistress’s favourite, and then himself

become housekeeper, and, subsequently, bailiff; after which

he had proceeded according to the rules of his tribe—

that is to say, he had consorted with and stood in with

the more well-to-do serfs on the estate, and added the

poorer ones to the list of forced payers of obrok, while

himself leaving his bed at nine o’clock in the morning,

and, when the samovar had been brought, drinking his

tea at leisure.

“Look here, my good man,” said Manilov. “How many of

our serfs have died since the last census revision?”

“How many of them have died? Why, a great many.” The

bailiff hiccoughed, and slapped his mouth lightly after

doing so.

“Yes, I imagined that to be the case,” corroborated

Manilov. “In fact, a very great many serfs have died.” He

turned to Chichikov and repeated the words.

“How many, for instance?” asked Chichikov.

“Yes; how many?” re-echoed Manilov.

“How many?” re-echoed the bailiff. “Well, no one knows

the exact number, for no one has kept any account.”

“Quite so,” remarked Manilov. “I supposed the death-

rate to have been high, but was ignorant of its precise

extent.”

“Then would you be so good as to have it computed for

me?” said Chichikov. “And also to have a detailed list of

the deaths made out?”

“Yes, I will—a detailed list,” agreed Manilov.

“Very well.”

45

GogolThe bailiff departed.

“For what purpose do you want it?” inquired Manilov

when the bailiff had gone.

The question seemed to embarrass the guest, for in

Chichikov’s face there dawned a sort of tense expression,

and it reddened as though its owner were striving to ex-

press something not easy to put into words. True enough,

Manilov was now destined to hear such strange and unex-

pected things as never before had greeted human ears.

“You ask me,” said Chichikov, “for what purpose I want

the list. Well, my purpose in wanting it is this—that I

desire to purchase a few peasants.” And he broke off in a

gulp.

“But may I ask HOW you desire to purchase those peas-

ants?” asked Manilov. “With land, or merely as souls for

transferment—that is to say, by themselves, and without

any land?”

“I want the peasants themselves only,” replied Chichikov.

“And I want dead ones at that.”

“What?—Excuse me, but I am a trifle deaf. Really, your

words sound most strange!”

“All that I am proposing to do,” replied Chichikov, “is

to purchase the dead peasants who, at the last census,

were returned by you as alive.”

Manilov dropped his pipe on the floor, and sat gaping.

Yes, the two friends who had just been discussing the joys

of camaraderie sat staring at one another like the por-

traits which, of old, used to hang on opposite sides of a

mirror. At length Manilov picked up his pipe, and, while

doing so, glanced covertly at Chichikov to see whether

there was any trace of a smile to be detected on his lips—

whether, in short, he was joking. But nothing of the sort

could be discerned. On the contrary, Chichikov’s face looked

graver than usual. Next, Manilov wondered whether, for

some unknown reason, his guest had lost his wits; where-

fore he spent some time in gazing at him with anxious

intentness. But the guest’s eyes seemed clear—they con-

tained no spark of the wild, restless fire which is apt to

wander in the eyes of madmen. All was as it should be.

Consequently, in spite of Manilov’s cogitations, he could

think of nothing better to do than to sit letting a stream

of tobacco smoke escape from his mouth.

46

Dead Souls“So,” continued Chichikov, “what I desire to know is

whether you are willing to hand over to me—to resign—

these actually non-living, but legally living, peasants; or

whether you have any better proposal to make?”

Manilov felt too confused and confounded to do aught

but continue staring at his interlocutor.

“I think that you are disturbing yourself unnecessarily,”

was Chichikov’s next remark.

“I? Oh no! Not at all!” stammered Manilov. “Only—

pardon me—I do not quite comprehend you. You see,

never has it fallen to my lot to acquire the brilliant polish

which is, so to speak, manifest in your every movement.

Nor have I ever been able to attain the art of expressing

myself well. Consequently, although there is a possibility

that in the—er—utterances which have just fallen from

your lips there may lie something else concealed, it may

equally be that—er—you have been pleased so to express

yourself for the sake of the beauty of the terms wherein

that expression found shape?”

“Oh, no,” asserted Chichikov. “I mean what I say and no

more. My reference to such of your pleasant souls as are

dead was intended to be taken literally.”

Manilov still felt at a loss—though he was conscious

that he must do something, he must propound some ques-

tion. But what question? The devil alone knew! In the end

he merely expelled some more tobacco smoke—this time

from his nostrils as well as from his mouth.

“So,” went on Chichikov, “if no obstacle stands in the

way, we might as well proceed to the completion of the

purchase.”

“What? Of the purchase of the dead souls?”

“Of the ‘dead’ souls? Oh dear no! Let us write them

down as living ones, seeing that that is how they figure in

the census returns. Never do I permit myself to step out-

side the civil law, great though has been the harm which

that rule has wrought me in my career. In my eyes an

obligation is a sacred thing. In the presence of the law I

am dumb.”

These last words reassured Manilov not a little: yet still

the meaning of the affair remained to him a mystery. By

way of answer, he fell to sucking at his pipe with such

vehemence that at length the pipe began to gurgle like a

47

Gogolbassoon. It was as though he had been seeking of it inspi-

ration in the present unheard-of juncture. But the pipe

only gurgled, et praeterea nihil.

“Perhaps you feel doubtful about the proposal?” said

Chichikov.

“Not at all,” replied Manilov. “But you will, I know,

excuse me if I say (and I say it out of no spirit of preju-

dice, nor yet as criticising yourself in any way)—you will,

I know, excuse me if I say that possibly this—er—this,

er, scheme of yours, this—er—transaction of yours, may

fail altogether to accord with the Civil Statutes and Provi-

sions of the Realm?”

And Manilov, with a slight gesture of the head, looked

meaningly into Chichikov’s face, while displaying in his

every feature, including his closely-compressed lips, such

an expression of profundity as never before was seen on

any human countenance—unless on that of some par-

ticularly sapient Minister of State who is debating some

particularly abstruse problem.

Nevertheless Chichikov rejoined that the kind of scheme

or transaction which he had adumbrated in no way clashed

with the Civil Statutes and Provisions of Russia; to which

he added that the Treasury would even benefit by the

enterprise, seeing it would draw therefrom the usual legal

percentage.

“What, then, do you propose?” asked Manilov.

“I propose only what is above-board, and nothing else.”

“Then, that being so, it is another matter, and I have

nothing to urge against it,” said Manilov, apparently reas-

sured to the full.

“Very well,” remarked Chichikov. “Then we need only to

agree as to the price.”

“As to the price?” began Manilov, and then stopped.

Presently he went on: “Surely you cannot suppose me

capable of taking money for souls which, in one sense at

least, have completed their existence? Seeing that this

fantastic whim of yours (if I may so call it?) has seized

upon you to the extent that it has, I, on my side, shall be

ready to surrender to you those souls unconditionally, and

to charge myself with the whole expenses of the sale.”

I should be greatly to blame if I were to omit that, as

soon as Manilov had pronounced these words, the face of

48

Dead Soulshis guest became replete with satisfaction. Indeed, grave

and prudent a man though Chichikov was, he had much

ado to refrain from executing a leap that would have done

credit to a goat (an animal which, as we all know, finds

itself moved to such exertions only during moments of

the most ecstatic joy). Nevertheless the guest did at least

execute such a convulsive shuffle that the material with

which the cushions of the chair were covered came apart,

and Manilov gazed at him with some misgiving. Finally

Chichikov’s gratitude led him to plunge into a stream of

acknowledgement of a vehemence which caused his host

to grow confused, to blush, to shake his head in depreca-

tion, and to end by declaring that the concession was

nothing, and that, his one desire being to manifest the

dictates of his heart and the psychic magnetism which his

friend exercised, he, in short, looked upon the dead souls

as so much worthless rubbish.

“Not at all,” replied Chichikov, pressing his hand; after

which he heaved a profound sigh. Indeed, he seemed in

the right mood for outpourings of the heart, for he con-

tinued—not without a ring of emotion in his tone: “If

you but knew the service which you have rendered to an

apparently insignificant individual who is devoid both of

family and kindred! For what have I not suffered in my

time—I, a drifting barque amid the tempestuous billows

of life? What harryings, what persecutions, have I not

known? Of what grief have I not tasted? And why? Simply

because I have ever kept the truth in view, because ever I

have preserved inviolate an unsullied conscience, because

ever I have stretched out a helping hand to the defenceless

widow and the hapless orphan!” After which outpouring

Chichikov pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped away a

brimming tear.

Manilov’s heart was moved to the core. Again and again

did the two friends press one another’s hands in silence as

they gazed into one another’s tear-filled eyes. Indeed,

Manilov could not let go our hero’s hand, but clasped it

with such warmth that the hero in question began to feel

himself at a loss how best to wrench it free: until, quietly

withdrawing it, he observed that to have the purchase

completed as speedily as possible would not be a bad

thing; wherefore he himself would at once return to the

49

Gogoltown to arrange matters. Taking up his hat, therefore, he

rose to make his adieus.

“What? Are you departing already?” said Manilov, sud-

denly recovering himself, and experiencing a sense of mis-

giving. At that moment his wife sailed into the room.

“Is Paul Ivanovitch leaving us so soon, dearest Lizanka?”

she said with an air of regret.

“Yes. Surely it must be that we have wearied him?” her

spouse replied.

“By no means,” asserted Chichikov, pressing his hand to

his heart. “In this breast, madam, will abide for ever the

pleasant memory of the time which I have spent with

you. Believe me, I could conceive of no greater blessing

than to reside, if not under the same roof as yourselves,

at all events in your immediate neighbourhood.”

“Indeed?” exclaimed Manilov, greatly pleased with the

idea. “How splendid it would be if you did come to reside

under our roof, so that we could recline under an elm tree

together, and talk philosophy, and delve to the very root

of things!”

“Yes, it would be a paradisaical existence!” agreed

Chichikov with a sigh. Nevertheless he shook hands with

Madame. “Farewell, sudarina,” he said. “And farewell to

you, my esteemed host. Do not forget what I have re-

quested you to do.”

“Rest assured that I will not,” responded Manilov. “Only

for a couple of days will you and I be parted from one

another.”

With that the party moved into the drawing-room.

“Farewell, dearest children,” Chichikov went on as he

caught sight of Alkid and Themistocleus, who were play-

ing with a wooden hussar which lacked both a nose and

one arm. “Farewell, dearest pets. Pardon me for having

brought you no presents, but, to tell you the truth, I was

not, until my visit, aware of your existence. However, now

that I shall be coming again, I will not fail to bring you

gifts. Themistocleus, to you I will bring a sword. You

would like that, would you not?”

“I should,” replied Themistocleus.

“And to you, Alkid, I will bring a drum. That would suit

you, would it not?” And he bowed in Alkid’s direction.

“Zeth—a drum,” lisped the boy, hanging his head.

50

Dead Souls“Good! Then a drum it shall be—such a beautiful drum!

What a tur-r-r-ru-ing and a tra-ta-ta-ta-ing you will be

able to kick up! Farewell, my darling.” And, kissing the

boy’s head, he turned to Manilov and Madame with the

slight smile which one assumes before assuring parents of

the guileless merits of their offspring.

“But you had better stay, Paul Ivanovitch,” said the

father as the trio stepped out on to the verandah. “See

how the clouds are gathering!”

“They are only small ones,” replied Chichikov.

“And you know your way to Sobakevitch’s?”

“No, I do not, and should be glad if you would direct

me.”

“If you like I will tell your coachman.” And in very civil

fashion Manilov did so, even going so far as to address the

man in the second person plural. On hearing that he was

to pass two turnings, and then to take a third, Selifan

remarked, “We shall get there all right, sir,” and Chichikov

departed amid a profound salvo of salutations and wavings

of handkerchiefs on the part of his host and hostess, who

raised themselves on tiptoe in their enthusiasm.

For a long while Manilov stood following the departing

britchka with his eyes. In fact, he continued to smoke his

pipe and gaze after the vehicle even when it had become

lost to view. Then he re-entered the drawing-room, seated

himself upon a chair, and surrendered his mind to the

thought that he had shown his guest most excellent en-

tertainment. Next, his mind passed imperceptibly to other

matters, until at last it lost itself God only knows where.

He thought of the amenities of a life, of friendship, and of

how nice it would be to live with a comrade on, say, the

bank of some river, and to span the river with a bridge of

his own, and to build an enormous mansion with a facade

lofty enough even to afford a view to Moscow. On that

facade he and his wife and friend would drink afternoon

tea in the open air, and discuss interesting subjects; after

which, in a fine carriage, they would drive to some re-

union or other, where with their pleasant manners they

would so charm the company that the Imperial Govern-

ment, on learning of their merits, would raise the pair to

the grade of General or God knows what—that is to say,

to heights whereof even Manilov himself could form no

51

Gogolidea. Then suddenly Chichikov’s extraordinary request in-

terrupted the dreamer’s reflections, and he found his brain

powerless to digest it, seeing that, turn and turn the

matter about as he might, he could not properly explain

its bearing. Smoking his pipe, he sat where he was until

supper time.

CHAPTER III

Meanwhile, Chichikov, seated in his britchka and bowling

along the turnpike, was feeling greatly pleased with him-

self. From the preceding chapter the reader will have gath-

ered the principal subject of his bent and inclinations:

wherefore it is no matter for wonder that his body and his

soul had ended by becoming wholly immersed therein. To

all appearances the thoughts, the calculations, and the

projects which were now reflected in his face partook of a

pleasant nature, since momentarily they kept leaving be-

hind them a satisfied smile. Indeed, so engrossed was he

that he never noticed that his coachman, elated with the

hospitality of Manilov’s domestics, was making remarks of

a didactic nature to the off horse of the troika*, a skew-

bald. This skewbald was a knowing animal, and made only

a show of pulling; whereas its comrades, the middle horse

(a bay, and known as the Assessor, owing to his having

been acquired from a gentleman of that rank) and the

near horse (a roan), would do their work gallantly, and

*Three horses harnessed abreast.

52

Dead Soulseven evince in their eyes the pleasure which they derived

from their exertions.

“Ah, you rascal, you rascal! I’ll get the better of you!”

ejaculated Selifan as he sat up and gave the lazy one a cut

with his whip. “You know your business all right, you

German pantaloon! The bay is a good fellow, and does his

duty, and I will give him a bit over his feed, for he is a

horse to be respected; and the Assessor too is a good

horse. But what are you shaking your ears for? You are a

fool, so just mind when you’re spoken to. ’Tis good advice

I’m giving you, you blockhead. Ah! You can travel when

you like.” And he gave the animal another cut, and then

shouted to the trio, “Gee up, my beauties!” and drew his

whip gently across the backs of the skewbald’s comrades—

not as a punishment, but as a sign of his approval. That

done, he addressed himself to the skewbald again.

“Do you think,” he cried, “that I don’t see what you are

doing? You can behave quite decently when you like, and

make a man respect you.”

With that he fell to recalling certain reminiscences.

“They were nice folk, those folk at the gentleman’s yon-

der,” he mused. “I do love a chat with a man when he is

a good sort. With a man of that kind I am always hail-

fellow-well-met, and glad to drink a glass of tea with

him, or to eat a biscuit. One can’t help respecting a de-

cent fellow. For instance, this gentleman of mine—why,

every one looks up to him, for he has been in the

Government’s service, and is a Collegiate Councillor.”

Thus soliloquising, he passed to more remote abstrac-

tions; until, had Chichikov been listening, he would have

learnt a number of interesting details concerning himself.

However, his thoughts were wholly occupied with his own

subject, so much so that not until a loud clap of thunder

awoke him from his reverie did he glance around him. The

sky was completely covered with clouds, and the dusty

turnpike beginning to be sprinkled with drops of rain. At

length a second and a nearer and a louder peal resounded,

and the rain descended as from a bucket. Falling slant-

wise, it beat upon one side of the basketwork of the tilt

until the splashings began to spurt into his face, and he

found himself forced to draw the curtains (fitted with

circular openings through which to obtain a glimpse of

53

Gogolthe wayside view), and to shout to Selifan to quicken his

pace. Upon that the coachman, interrupted in the middle

of his harangue, bethought him that no time was to be

lost; wherefore, extracting from under the box-seat a piece

of old blanket, he covered over his sleeves, resumed the

reins, and cheered on his threefold team (which, it may

be said, had so completely succumbed to the influence of

the pleasant lassitude induced by Selifan’s discourse that

it had taken to scarcely placing one leg before the other).

Unfortunately, Selifan could not clearly remember whether

two turnings had been passed or three. Indeed, on col-

lecting his faculties, and dimly recalling the lie of the

road, he became filled with a shrewd suspicion that a very

large number of turnings had been passed. But since, at

moments which call for a hasty decision, a Russian is quick

to discover what may conceivably be the best course to

take, our coachman put away from him all ulterior rea-

soning, and, turning to the right at the next cross-road,

shouted, “Hi, my beauties!” and set off at a gallop. Never

for a moment did he stop to think whither the road might

lead him!

It was long before the clouds had discharged their bur-

den, and, meanwhile, the dust on the road became kneaded

into mire, and the horses’ task of pulling the britchka

heavier and heavier. Also, Chichikov had taken alarm at

his continued failure to catch sight of Sobakevitch’s country

house. According to his calculations, it ought to have

been reached long ago. He gazed about him on every side,

but the darkness was too dense for the eye to pierce.

“Selifan!” he exclaimed, leaning forward in the britchka.

“What is it, barin?” replied the coachman.

“Can you see the country house anywhere?”

“No, barin.” After which, with a flourish of the whip,

the man broke into a sort of endless, drawling song. In

that song everything had a place. By “everything” I mean

both the various encouraging and stimulating cries with

which Russian folk urge on their horses, and a random,

unpremeditated selection of adjectives.

Meanwhile Chichikov began to notice that the britchka

was swaying violently, and dealing him occasional bumps.

Consequently he suspected that it had left the road and

was being dragged over a ploughed field. Upon Selifan’s

54

Dead Soulsmind there appeared to have dawned a similar inkling, for

he had ceased to hold forth.

“You rascal, what road are you following?” inquired

Chichikov.

“I don’t know,” retorted the coachman. “What can a

man do at a time of night when the darkness won’t let

him even see his whip?” And as Selifan spoke the vehicle

tilted to an angle which left Chichikov no choice but to

hang on with hands and teeth. At length he realised the

fact that Selifan was drunk.

“Stop, stop, or you will upset us!” he shouted to the

fellow.

“No, no, barin,” replied Selifan. “How could I upset

you? To upset people is wrong. I know that very well, and

should never dream of such conduct.”

Here he started to turn the vehicle round a little—and

kept on doing so until the britchka capsized on to its

side, and Chichikov landed in the mud on his hands and

knees. Fortunately Selifan succeeded in stopping the horses,

although they would have stopped of themselves, seeing

that they were utterly worn out. This unforeseen catas-

trophe evidently astonished their driver. Slipping from the

box, he stood resting his hands against the side of the

britchka, while Chichikov tumbled and floundered about in

the mud, in a vain endeavour to wriggle clear of the stuff.

“Ah, you!” said Selifan meditatively to the britchka. “To

think of upsetting us like this!”

“You are as drunk as a lord!” exclaimed Chichikov.

“No, no, barin. Drunk, indeed? Why, I know my manners

too well. A word or two with a friend—that is all that I

have taken. Any one may talk with a decent man when he

meets him. There is nothing wrong in that. Also, we had

a snack together. There is nothing wrong in a snack—

especially a snack with a decent man.”

“What did I say to you when last you got drunk?” asked

Chichikov. “Have you forgotten what I said then?”

“No, no, barin. How could I forget it? I know what is

what, and know that it is not right to get drunk. All that

I have been having is a word or two with a decent man,

for the reason that—”

“Well, if I lay the whip about you, you’ll know then how

to talk to a decent fellow, I’ll warrant!”

55

Gogol“As you please, barin,” replied the complacent Selifan.

“Should you whip me, you will whip me, and I shall have

nothing to complain of. Why should you not whip me if I

deserve it? ’Tis for you to do as you like. Whippings are

necessary sometimes, for a peasant often plays the fool,

and discipline ought to be maintained. If I have deserved

it, beat me. Why should you not?”

This reasoning seemed, at the moment, irrefutable, and

Chichikov said nothing more. Fortunately fate had decided

to take pity on the pair, for from afar their ears caught

the barking of a dog. Plucking up courage, Chichikov gave

orders for the britchka to be righted, and the horses to be

urged forward; and since a Russian driver has at least this

merit, that, owing to a keen sense of smell being able to

take the place of eyesight, he can, if necessary, drive at

random and yet reach a destination of some sort, Selifan

succeeded, though powerless to discern a single object,

in directing his steeds to a country house near by, and

that with such a certainty of instinct that it was not until

the shafts had collided with a garden wall, and thereby

made it clear that to proceed another pace was impos-

sible, that he stopped. All that Chichikov could discern

through the thick veil of pouring rain was something which

resembled a verandah. So he dispatched Selifan to search

for the entrance gates, and that process would have lasted

indefinitely had it not been shortened by the circumstance

that, in Russia, the place of a Swiss footman is frequently

taken by watchdogs; of which animals a number now pro-

claimed the travellers’ presence so loudly that Chichikov

found himself forced to stop his ears. Next, a light gleamed

in one of the windows, and filtered in a thin stream to the

garden wall—thus revealing the whereabouts of the en-

trance gates; whereupon Selifan fell to knocking at the

gates until the bolts of the house door were withdrawn

and there issued therefrom a figure clad in a rough cloak.

“Who is that knocking? What have you come for?”

shouted the hoarse voice of an elderly woman.

“We are travellers, good mother,” said Chichikov. “Pray

allow us to spend the night here.”

“Out upon you for a pair of gadabouts!” retorted the

old woman. “A fine time of night to be arriving! We don’t

keep an hotel, mind you. This is a lady’s residence.”

56

Dead Souls“But what are we to do, mother? We have lost our way,

and cannot spend the night out of doors in such weather.”

“No, we cannot. The night is dark and cold,” added

Selifan.

“Hold your tongue, you fool!” exclaimed Chichikov.

“Who are you, then?” inquired the old woman.

“A dvorianin*, good mother.”

Somehow the word dvorianin seemed to give the old

woman food for thought.

“Wait a moment,” she said, “and I will tell the mis-

tress.”

Two minutes later she returned with a lantern in her

hand, the gates were opened, and a light glimmered in a

second window. Entering the courtyard, the britchka halted

before a moderate-sized mansion. The darkness did not

permit of very accurate observation being made, but, ap-

parently, the windows only of one-half of the building

were illuminated, while a quagmire in front of the door

reflected the beams from the same. Meanwhile the rain

continued to beat sonorously down upon the wooden roof,

and could be heard trickling into a water butt; nor for a

single moment did the dogs cease to bark with all the

strength of their lungs. One of them, throwing up its

head, kept venting a howl of such energy and duration

that the animal seemed to be howling for a handsome

wager; while another, cutting in between the yelpings of

the first animal, kept restlessly reiterating, like a postman’s

bell, the notes of a very young puppy. Finally, an old

hound which appeared to be gifted with a peculiarly ro-

bust temperament kept supplying the part of contrabasso,

so that his growls resembled the rumbling of a bass singer

when a chorus is in full cry, and the tenors are rising on

tiptoe in their efforts to compass a particularly high note,

and the whole body of choristers are wagging their heads

before approaching a climax, and this contrabasso alone

is tucking his bearded chin into his collar, and sinking

almost to a squatting posture on the floor, in order to

produce a note which shall cause the windows to shiver

and their panes to crack. Naturally, from a canine chorus

of such executants it might reasonably be inferred that

the establishment was one of the utmost respectability.*A member of the gentry class.

57

GogolTo that, however, our damp, cold hero gave not a thought,

for all his mind was fixed upon bed. Indeed, the britchka

had hardly come to a standstill before he leapt out upon

the doorstep, missed his footing, and came within an ace

of falling. To meet him there issued a female younger

than the first, but very closely resembling her; and on his

being conducted to the parlour, a couple of glances showed

him that the room was hung with old striped curtains,

and ornamented with pictures of birds and small, antique

mirrors—the latter set in dark frames which were carved

to resemble scrolls of foliage. Behind each mirror was stuck

either a letter or an old pack of cards or a stocking, while

on the wall hung a clock with a flowered dial. More, how-

ever, Chichikov could not discern, for his eyelids were as

heavy as though smeared with treacle. Presently the lady

of the house herself entered—an elderly woman in a sort

of nightcap (hastily put on) and a flannel neck wrap. She

belonged to that class of lady landowners who are for ever

lamenting failures of the harvest and their losses thereby;

to the class who, drooping their heads despondently, are

all the while stuffing money into striped purses, which

they keep hoarded in the drawers of cupboards. Into one

purse they will stuff rouble pieces, into another half roubles,

and into a third tchetvertachki*, although from their mien

you would suppose that the cupboard contained only linen

and nightshirts and skeins of wool and the piece of shabby

material which is destined—should the old gown become

scorched during the baking of holiday cakes and other

dainties, or should it fall into pieces of itself—to become

converted into a new dress. But the gown never does get

burnt or wear out, for the reason that the lady is too

careful; wherefore the piece of shabby material reposes in

its unmade-up condition until the priest advises that it

be given to the niece of some widowed sister, together

with a quantity of other such rubbish.

Chichikov apologised for having disturbed the house-

hold with his unexpected arrival.

“Not at all, not at all,” replied the lady. “But in what

dreadful weather God has brought you hither! What wind

and what rain! You could not help losing your way. Pray

excuse us for being unable to make better preparations

*Pieces equal in value to twenty-five kopecks (a quarterof a rouble).

58

Dead Soulsfor you at this time of night.”

Suddenly there broke in upon the hostess’ words the

sound of a strange hissing, a sound so loud that the guest

started in alarm, and the more so seeing that it increased

until the room seemed filled with adders. On glancing

upwards, however, he recovered his composure, for he

perceived the sound to be emanating from the clock, which

appeared to be in a mind to strike. To the hissing sound

there succeeded a wheezing one, until, putting forth its

best efforts, the thing struck two with as much clatter as

though some one had been hitting an iron pot with a

cudgel. That done, the pendulum returned to its right-

left, right-left oscillation.

Chichikov thanked his hostess kindly, and said that he

needed nothing, and she must not put herself about: only

for rest was he longing—though also he should like to

know whither he had arrived, and whether the distance to

the country house of land-owner Sobakevitch was any-

thing very great. To this the lady replied that she had

never so much as heard the name, since no gentleman of

the name resided in the locality.

“But at least you are acquainted with landowner

Manilov?” continued Chichikov.

“No. Who is he?”

“Another landed proprietor, madam.”

“Well, neither have I heard of him. No such landowner

lives hereabouts.”

“Then who are your local landowners?”

“Bobrov, Svinin, Kanapatiev, Khapakin, Trepakin, and

Plieshakov.”

“Are they rich men?”

“No, none of them. One of them may own twenty souls,

and another thirty, but of gentry who own a hundred there

are none.”

Chichikov reflected that he had indeed fallen into an

aristocratic wilderness!

“At all events, is the town far away?” he inquired.

“About sixty versts. How sorry I am that I have nothing

for you to eat! Should you care to drink some tea?”

“I thank you, good mother, but I require nothing be-

yond a bed.”

“Well, after such a journey you must indeed be needing

59

Gogolrest, so you shall lie upon this sofa. Fetinia, bring a quilt

and some pillows and sheets. What weather God has sent

us! And what dreadful thunder! Ever since sunset I have

had a candle burning before the ikon in my bedroom. My

God! Why, your back and sides are as muddy as a boar’s!

However have you managed to get into such a state?”

“That I am nothing worse than muddy is indeed fortu-

nate, since, but for the Almighty, I should have had my

ribs broken.”

“Dear, dear! To think of all that you must have been

through. Had I not better wipe your back?”

“I thank you, I thank you, but you need not trouble.

Merely be so good as to tell your maid to dry my clothes.”

“Do you hear that, Fetinia?” said the hostess, turning

to a woman who was engaged in dragging in a feather bed

and deluging the room with feathers. “Take this coat and

this vest, and, after drying them before the fire—just as

we used to do for your late master—give them a good

rub, and fold them up neatly.”

“Very well, mistress,” said Fetinia, spreading some sheets

over the bed, and arranging the pillows.

“Now your bed is ready for you,” said the hostess to

Chichikov. “Good-night, dear sir. I wish you good-night.

Is there anything else that you require? Perhaps you would

like to have your heels tickled before retiring to rest?

Never could my late husband get to sleep without that

having been done.”

But the guest declined the proffered heel-tickling, and,

on his hostess taking her departure, hastened to divest

himself of his clothing, both upper and under, and to

hand the garments to Fetinia. She wished him good-night,

and removed the wet trappings; after which he found him-

self alone. Not without satisfaction did he eye his bed,

which reached almost to the ceiling. Clearly Fetinia was a

past mistress in the art of beating up such a couch, and,

as the result, he had no sooner mounted it with the aid of

a chair than it sank well-nigh to the floor, and the feath-

ers, squeezed out of their proper confines, flew hither and

thither into every corner of the apartment. Nevertheless

he extinguished the candle, covered himself over with the

chintz quilt, snuggled down beneath it, and instantly fell

asleep. Next day it was late in the morning before he

60

Dead Soulsawoke. Through the window the sun was shining into his

eyes, and the flies which, overnight, had been roosting

quietly on the walls and ceiling now turned their atten-

tion to the visitor. One settled on his lip, another on his

ear, a third hovered as though intending to lodge in his

very eye, and a fourth had the temerity to alight just

under his nostrils. In his drowsy condition he inhaled the

latter insect, sneezed violently, and so returned to con-

sciousness. He glanced around the room, and perceived

that not all the pictures were representative of birds, since

among them hung also a portrait of Kutuzov* and an oil

painting of an old man in a uniform with red facings such

as were worn in the days of the Emperor Paul**. At this

moment the clock uttered its usual hissing sound, and

struck ten, while a woman’s face peered in at the door,

but at once withdrew, for the reason that, with the object

of sleeping as well as possible, Chichikov had removed

every stitch of his clothing. Somehow the face seemed to

him familiar, and he set himself to recall whose it could

be. At length he recollected that it was the face of his

hostess. His clothes he found lying, clean and dry, beside

him; so he dressed and approached the mirror, meanwhile

sneezing again with such vehemence that a cock which

happened at the moment to be near the window (which

was situated at no great distance from the ground) chuck-

led a short, sharp phrase. Probably it meant, in the bird’s

alien tongue, “Good morning to you!” Chichikov retorted

by calling the bird a fool, and then himself approached

the window to look at the view. It appeared to comprise a

poulterer’s premises. At all events, the narrow yard in front

of the window was full of poultry and other domestic

creatures—of game fowls and barn door fowls, with, among

them, a cock which strutted with measured gait, and kept

shaking its comb, and tilting its head as though it were

trying to listen to something. Also, a sow and her family

were helping to grace the scene. First, she rooted among

a heap of litter; then, in passing, she ate up a young

pullet; lastly, she proceeded carelessly to munch some

pieces of melon rind. To this small yard or poultry-run a

length of planking served as a fence, while beyond it lay a*A Russian general who, in 1812, stoutly opposed Napo-leon at the battle of Borodino.**The late eighteenth century.

61

Gogolkitchen garden containing cabbages, onions, potatoes,

beetroots, and other household vegetables. Also, the gar-

den contained a few stray fruit trees that were covered

with netting to protect them from the magpies and spar-

rows; flocks of which were even then wheeling and darting

from one spot to another. For the same reason a number

of scarecrows with outstretched arms stood reared on long

poles, with, surmounting one of the figures, a cast-off

cap of the hostess’s. Beyond the garden again there stood

a number of peasants’ huts. Though scattered, instead of

being arranged in regular rows, these appeared to

Chichikov’s eye to comprise well-to-do inhabitants, since

all rotten planks in their roofing had been replaced with

new ones, and none of their doors were askew, and such of

their tiltsheds as faced him evinced evidence of a pres-

ence of a spare waggon—in some cases almost a new one.

“This lady owns by no means a poor village,” said

Chichikov to himself; wherefore he decided then and there

to have a talk with his hostess, and to cultivate her closer

acquaintance. Accordingly he peeped through the chink

of the door whence her head had recently protruded, and,

on seeing her seated at a tea table, entered and greeted

her with a cheerful, kindly smile.

“Good morning, dear sir,” she responded as she rose.

“How have you slept?” She was dressed in better style

than she had been on the previous evening. That is to say,

she was now wearing a gown of some dark colour, and

lacked her nightcap, and had swathed her neck in some-

thing stiff.

“I have slept exceedingly well,” replied Chichikov, seat-

ing himself upon a chair. “And how are you, good madam?”

“But poorly, my dear sir.”

“And why so?”

“Because I cannot sleep. A pain has taken me in my

middle, and my legs, from the ankles upwards, are aching

as though they were broken.”

“That will pass, that will pass, good mother. You must

pay no attention to it.”

“God grant that it may pass. However, I have been rub-

bing myself with lard and turpentine. What sort of tea will

you take? In this jar I have some of the scented kind.”

“Excellent, good mother! Then I will take that.”

62

Dead SoulsProbably the reader will have noticed that, for all his

expressions of solicitude, Chichikov’s tone towards his host-

ess partook of a freer, a more unceremonious, nature than

that which he had adopted towards Madam Manilov. And

here I should like to assert that, howsoever much, in cer-

tain respects, we Russians may be surpassed by foreign-

ers, at least we surpass them in adroitness of manner. In

fact the various shades and subtleties of our social inter-

course defy enumeration. A Frenchman or a German would

be incapable of envisaging and understanding all its pecu-

liarities and differences, for his tone in speaking to a mil-

lionaire differs but little from that which he employs to-

wards a small tobacconist—and that in spite of the cir-

cumstance that he is accustomed to cringe before the

former. With us, however, things are different. In Russian

society there exist clever folk who can speak in one man-

ner to a landowner possessed of two hundred peasant souls,

and in another to a landowner possessed of three hun-

dred, and in another to a landowner possessed of five

hundred. In short, up to the number of a million souls the

Russian will have ready for each landowner a suitable mode

of address. For example, suppose that somewhere there

exists a government office, and that in that office there

exists a director. I would beg of you to contemplate him

as he sits among his myrmidons. Sheer nervousness will

prevent you from uttering a word in his presence, so great

are the pride and superiority depicted on his countenance.

Also, were you to sketch him, you would be sketching a

veritable Prometheus, for his glance is as that of an eagle,

and he walks with measured, stately stride. Yet no sooner

will the eagle have left the room to seek the study of his

superior officer than he will go scurrying along (papers

held close to his nose) like any partridge. But in society,

and at the evening party (should the rest of those present

be of lesser rank than himself) the Prometheus will once

more become Prometheus, and the man who stands a step

below him will treat him in a way never dreamt of by Ovid,

seeing that each fly is of lesser account than its superior

fly, and becomes, in the presence of the latter, even as a

grain of sand. “Surely that is not Ivan Petrovitch?” you

will say of such and such a man as you regard him. “Ivan

Petrovitch is tall, whereas this man is small and spare.

63

GogolIvan Petrovitch has a loud, deep voice, and never smiles,

whereas this man (whoever he may be) is twittering like a

sparrow, and smiling all the time.” Yet approach and take

a good look at the fellow and you will see that is is Ivan

Petrovitch. “Alack, alack!” will be the only remark you

can make.

Let us return to our characters in real life. We have seen

that, on this occasion, Chichikov decided to dispense with

ceremony; wherefore, taking up the teapot, he went on as

follows:

“You have a nice little village here, madam. How many

souls does it contain?”

“A little less than eighty, dear sir. But the times are

hard, and I have lost a great deal through last year’s har-

vest having proved a failure.”

“But your peasants look fine, strong fellows. May I en-

quire your name? Through arriving so late at night I have

quite lost my wits.”

“Korobotchka, the widow of a Collegiate Secretary.”

“I humbly thank you. And your Christian name and pat-

ronymic?”

“Nastasia Petrovna.”

“Nastasia Petrovna! Those are excellent names. I have a

maternal aunt named like yourself.”

“And your name?” queried the lady. “May I take it that

you are a Government Assessor?”

“No, madam,” replied Chichikov with a smile. “I am not

an Assessor, but a traveller on private business.”

“Then you must be a buyer of produce? How I regret

that I have sold my honey so cheaply to other buyers!

Otherwise you might have bought it, dear sir.”

“I never buy honey.”

“Then what do you buy, pray? Hemp? I have a little of

that by me, but not more than half a pood* or so.”

“No, madam. It is in other wares that I deal. Tell me,

have you, of late years, lost many of your peasants by

death?”

“Yes; no fewer than eighteen,” responded the old lady

with a sigh. “Such a fine lot, too—all good workers! True,

others have since grown up, but of what use are they?

Mere striplings. When the Assessor last called upon me I

*Forty Russian pounds.

64

Dead Soulscould have wept; for, though those workmen of mine are

dead, I have to keep on paying for them as though they

were still alive! And only last week my blacksmith got

burnt to death! Such a clever hand at his trade he was!”

“What? A fire occurred at your place?”

“No, no, God preserve us all! It was not so bad as that.

You must understand that the blacksmith set himself on

fire—he got set on fire in his bowels through overdrink-

ing. Yes, all of a sudden there burst from him a blue

flame, and he smouldered and smouldered until he had

turned as black as a piece of charcoal! Yet what a clever

blacksmith he was! And now I have no horses to drive out

with, for there is no one to shoe them.”

“In everything the will of God, madam,” said Chichikov

with a sigh. “Against the divine wisdom it is not for us to

rebel. Pray hand them over to me, Nastasia Petrovna.”

“Hand over whom?”

“The dead peasants.”

“But how could I do that?”

“Quite simply. Sell them to me, and I will give you some

money in exchange.”

“But how am I to sell them to you? I scarcely under-

stand what you mean. Am I to dig them up again from

the ground?”

Chichikov perceived that the old lady was altogether at

sea, and that he must explain the matter; wherefore in a

few words he informed her that the transfer or purchase

of the souls in question would take place merely on pa-

per—that the said souls would be listed as still alive.

“And what good would they be to you?” asked his host-

ess, staring at him with her eyes distended.

“That is my affair.”

“But they are dead souls.”

“Who said they were not? The mere fact of their being

dead entails upon you a loss as dead as the souls, for you

have to continue paying tax upon them, whereas my plan

is to relieve you both of the tax and of the resultant

trouble. Now do you understand? And I will not only do

as I say, but also hand you over fifteen roubles per soul.

Is that clear enough?”

“Yes—but I do not know,” said his hostess diffidently.

“You see, never before have I sold dead souls.”

65

Gogol“Quite so. It would be a surprising thing if you had. But

surely you do not think that these dead souls are in the

least worth keeping?”

“Oh, no, indeed! Why should they be worth keeping? I

am sure they are not so. The only thing which troubles me

is the fact that they are dead.”

“She seems a truly obstinate old woman!” was Chichikov’s

inward comment. “Look here, madam,” he added aloud.

“You reason well, but you are simply ruining yourself by

continuing to pay the tax upon dead souls as though they

were still alive.”

“Oh, good sir, do not speak of it!” the lady exclaimed.

“Three weeks ago I took a hundred and fifty roubles to

that Assessor, and buttered him up, and—”

“Then you see how it is, do you not? Remember that,

according to my plan, you will never again have to but-

ter up the Assessor, seeing that it will be I who will be

paying for those peasants—I, not you, for I shall have

taken over the dues upon them, and have transferred

them to myself as so many bona fide serfs. Do you un-

derstand at last?”

However, the old lady still communed with herself. She

could see that the transaction would be to her advantage,

yet it was one of such a novel and unprecedented nature

that she was beginning to fear lest this purchaser of souls

intended to cheat her. Certainly he had come from God

only knew where, and at the dead of night, too!

“But, sir, I have never in my life sold dead folk—only

living ones. Three years ago I transferred two wenches to

Protopopov for a hundred roubles apiece, and he thanked

me kindly, for they turned out splendid workers—able to

make napkins or anything else.

“Yes, but with the living we have nothing to do, damn

it! I am asking you only about dead folk.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But at first sight I felt afraid lest I

should be incurring a loss—lest you should be wishing to

outwit me, good sir. You see, the dead souls are worth

rather more than you have offered for them.”

“See here, madam. (What a woman it is!) How could

they be worth more? Think for yourself. They are so much

loss to you—so much loss, do you understand? Take any

worthless, rubbishy article you like—a piece of old rag,

66

Dead Soulsfor example. That rag will yet fetch its price, for it can be

bought for paper-making. But these dead souls are good

for nothing at all. Can you name anything that they are

good for?”

“True, true—they are good for nothing. But what

troubles me is the fact that they are dead.”

“What a blockhead of a creature!” said Chichikov to him-

self, for he was beginning to lose patience. “Bless her

heart, I may as well be going. She has thrown me into a

perfect sweat, the cursed old shrew!”

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the

perspiration from his brow. Yet he need not have flown

into such a passion. More than one respected statesman

reveals himself, when confronted with a business matter,

to be just such another as Madam Korobotchka, in that,

once he has got an idea into his head, there is no getting

it out of him—you may ply him with daylight-clear argu-

ments, yet they will rebound from his brain as an india-

rubber ball rebounds from a flagstone. Nevertheless, wip-

ing away the perspiration, Chichikov resolved to try whether

he could not bring her back to the road by another path.

“Madam,” he said, “either you are declining to under-

stand what I say or you are talking for the mere sake of

talking. If I hand you over some money—fifteen roubles

for each soul, do you understand?—it is money, not some-

thing which can be picked up haphazard on the street.

For instance, tell me how much you sold your honey for?”

“For twelve roubles per pood.”

“Ah! Then by those words, madam, you have laid a tri-

fling sin upon your soul; for you did not sell the honey for

twelve roubles.”

“By the Lord God I did!”

“Well, well! Never mind. Honey is only honey. Now, you

had collected that stuff, it may be, for a year, and with

infinite care and labour. You had fussed after it, you had

trotted to and fro, you had duly frozen out the bees, and

you had fed them in the cellar throughout the winter. But

these dead souls of which I speak are quite another mat-

ter, for in this case you have put forth no exertions—it

was merely God’s will that they should leave the world,

and thus decrease the personnel of your establishment. In

the former case you received (so you allege) twelve roubles

67

Gogolper pood for your labour; but in this case you will receive

money for having done nothing at all. Nor will you receive

twelve roubles per item, but fifteen—and roubles not in

silver, but roubles in good paper currency.”

That these powerful inducements would certainly cause

the old woman to yield Chichikov had not a doubt.

“True,” his hostess replied. “But how strangely business

comes to me as a widow! Perhaps I had better wait a little

longer, seeing that other buyers might come along, and I

might be able to compare prices.”

“For shame, madam! For shame! Think what you are

saying. Who else, I would ask, would care to buy those

souls? What use could they be to any one?”

“If that is so, they might come in useful to me,” mused

the old woman aloud; after which she sat staring at

Chichikov with her mouth open and a face of nervous

expectancy as to his possible rejoinder.

“Dead folk useful in a household!” he exclaimed. “Why,

what could you do with them? Set them up on poles to

frighten away the sparrows from your garden?”

“The Lord save us, but what things you say!” she ejacu-

lated, crossing herself.

“Well, what could you do with them? By this time they

are so much bones and earth. That is all there is left of

them. Their transfer to myself would be on paper only.

Come, come! At least give me an answer.”

Again the old woman communed with herself.

“What are you thinking of, Nastasia Petrovna?” inquired

Chichikov.

“I am thinking that I scarcely know what to do. Perhaps

I had better sell you some hemp?”

“What do I want with hemp? Pardon me, but just when

I have made to you a different proposal altogether you

begin fussing about hemp! Hemp is hemp, and though I

may want some when I next visit you, I should like to

know what you have to say to the suggestion under dis-

cussion.”

“Well, I think it a very queer bargain. Never have I heard

of such a thing.”

Upon this Chichikov lost all patience, upset his chair,

and bid her go to the devil; of which personage even the

mere mention terrified her extremely.

68

Dead Souls“Do not speak of him, I beg of you!” she cried, turning

pale. “May God, rather, bless him! Last night was the

third night that he has appeared to me in a dream. You

see, after saying my prayers, I bethought me of telling my

fortune by the cards; and God must have sent him as a

punishment. He looked so horrible, and had horns longer

than a bull’s!”

“I wonder you don’t see scores of devils in your dreams!

Merely out of Christian charity he had come to you to say,

‘I perceive a poor widow going to rack and ruin, and likely

soon to stand in danger of want.’ Well, go to rack and

ruin—yes, you and all your village together!”

“The insults!” exclaimed the old woman, glancing at her

visitor in terror.

“I should think so!” continued Chichikov. “Indeed, I

cannot find words to describe you. To say no more about

it, you are like a dog in a manger. You don’t want to eat

the hay yourself, yet you won’t let anyone else touch it.

All that I am seeking to do is to purchase certain domes-

tic products of yours, for the reason that I have certain

Government contracts to fulfil.” This last he added in

passing, and without any ulterior motive, save that it

came to him as a happy thought. Nevertheless the men-

tion of Government contracts exercised a powerful influ-

ence upon Nastasia Petrovna, and she hastened to say in a

tone that was almost supplicatory:

“Why should you be so angry with me? Had I known

that you were going to lose your temper in this way, I

should never have discussed the matter.”

“No wonder that I lose my temper! An egg too many is

no great matter, yet it may prove exceedingly annoying.”

“Well, well, I will let you have the souls for fifteen

roubles each. Also, with regard to those contracts, do not

forget me if at any time you should find yourself in need

of rye-meal or buckwheat or groats or dead meat.”

“No, I shall never forget you, madam!” he said, wiping

his forehead, where three separate streams of perspiration

were trickling down his face. Then he asked her whether in

the town she had any acquaintance or agent whom she

could empower to complete the transference of the serfs,

and to carry out whatsoever else might be necessary.

“Certainly,” replied Madame Korobotchka. “The son of

69

Gogolour archpriest, Father Cyril, himself is a lawyer.”

Upon that Chichikov begged her to accord the gentle-

man in question a power of attorney, while, to save extra

trouble, he himself would then and there compose the

requisite letter.

“It would be a fine thing if he were to buy up all my

meal and stock for the Government,” thought Madame to

herself. “I must encourage him a little. There has been

some dough standing ready since last night, so I will go

and tell Fetinia to try a few pancakes. Also, it might be

well to try him with an egg pie. We make then nicely here,

and they do not take long in the making.”

So she departed to translate her thoughts into action, as

well as to supplement the pie with other products of the

domestic cuisine; while, for his part, Chichikov returned to

the drawing-room where he had spent the night, in order to

procure from his dispatch-box the necessary writing-paper.

The room had now been set in order, the sumptuous feather

bed removed, and a table set before the sofa. Depositing

his dispatch-box upon the table, he heaved a gentle sigh

on becoming aware that he was so soaked with perspiration

that he might almost have been dipped in a river. Every-

thing, from his shirt to his socks, was dripping. “May she

starve to death, the cursed old harridan!” he ejaculated

after a moment’s rest. Then he opened his dispatch-box. In

passing, I may say that I feel certain that at least SOME of

my readers will be curious to know the contents and the

internal arrangements of that receptacle. Why should I not

gratify their curiosity? To begin with, the centre of the box

contained a soap-dish, with, disposed around it, six or seven

compartments for razors. Next came square partitions for a

sand-box* and an inkstand, as well as (scooped out in their

midst) a hollow of pens, sealing-wax, and anything else

that required more room. Lastly there were all sorts of little

divisions, both with and without lids, for articles of a smaller

nature, such as visiting cards, memorial cards, theatre tick-

ets, and things which Chichikov had laid by as souvenirs.

This portion of the box could be taken out, and below it

were both a space for manuscripts and a secret money-

box—the latter made to draw out from the side of the

receptacle.

*To serve as blotting-paper.

70

Dead SoulsChichikov set to work to clean a pen, and then to write.

Presently his hostess entered the room.

“What a beautiful box you have got, my dear sir!” she

exclaimed as she took a seat beside him. “Probably you

bought it in Moscow?”

“Yes—in Moscow,” replied Chichikov without interrupt-

ing his writing.

“I thought so. One can get good things there. Three

years ago my sister brought me a few pairs of warm shoes

for my sons, and they were such excellent articles! To this

day my boys wear them. And what nice stamped paper

you have!” (she had peered into the dispatch-box, where,

sure enough, there lay a further store of the paper in

question). “Would you mind letting me have a sheet of

it? I am without any at all, although I shall soon have to

be presenting a plea to the land court, and possess not a

morsel of paper to write it on.”

Upon this Chichikov explained that the paper was not

the sort proper for the purpose—that it was meant for

serf-indenturing, and not for the framing of pleas. Never-

theless, to quiet her, he gave her a sheet stamped to the

value of a rouble. Next, he handed her the letter to sign,

and requested, in return, a list of her peasants. Unfortu-

nately, such a list had never been compiled, let alone any

copies of it, and the only way in which she knew the

peasants’ names was by heart. However, he told her to

dictate them. Some of the names greatly astonished our

hero, so, still more, did the surnames. Indeed, frequently,

on hearing the latter, he had to pause before writing them

down. Especially did he halt before a certain “Peter Saveliev

Neuvazhai Korito.” “What a string of titles!” involuntarily

he ejaculated. To the Christian name of another serf was

appended “Korovi Kirpitch,” and to that of a third “Koleso

Ivan.” However, at length the list was compiled, and he

caught a deep breath; which latter proceeding caused him

to catch also the attractive odour of something fried in fat.

“I beseech you to have a morsel,” murmured his host-

ess. Chichikov looked up, and saw that the table was spread

with mushrooms, pies, and other viands.

“Try this freshly-made pie and an egg,” continued Madame.

Chichikov did so, and having eaten more than half of

what she offered him, praised the pie highly. Indeed, it

71

Gogolwas a toothsome dish, and, after his difficulties and exer-

tions with his hostess, it tasted even better than it might

otherwise have done.

“And also a few pancakes?” suggested Madame.

For answer Chichikov folded three together, and, having

dipped them in melted butter, consigned the lot to his

mouth, and then wiped his mouth with a napkin. Twice

more was the process repeated, and then he requested his

hostess to order the britchka to be got ready. In dis-

patching Fetinia with the necessary instructions, she or-

dered her to return with a second batch of hot pancakes.

“Your pancakes are indeed splendid,” said Chichikov, ap-

plying himself to the second consignment of fried dain-

ties when they had arrived.

“Yes, we make them well here,” replied Madame. “Yet

how unfortunate it is that the harvest should have proved

so poor as to have prevented me from earning anything

on my— But why should you be in such a hurry to depart,

good sir?” She broke off on seeing Chichikov reach for his

cap. “The britchka is not yet ready.”

“Then it is being got so, madam, it is being got so, and

I shall need a moment or two to pack my things.”

“As you please, dear sir; but do not forget me in con-

nection with those Government contracts.”

“No, I have said that never shall I forget you,” replied

Chichikov as he hurried into the hall.

“And would you like to buy some lard?” continued his

hostess, pursuing him.

“Lard? Oh certainly. Why not? Only, only—I will do so

another time.”

“I shall have some ready at about Christmas.”

“Quite so, madam. Then I will buy anything and every-

thing—the lard included.”

“And perhaps you will be wanting also some feathers? I

shall be having some for sale about St. Philip’s Day.”

“Very well, very well, madam.”

“There you see!” she remarked as they stepped out on

to the verandah. “The britchka is not yet ready.”

“But it soon will be, it soon will be. Only direct me to

the main road.”

“How am I to do that?” said Madame. “’Twould puzzle a

wise man to do so, for in these parts there are so many

72

Dead Soulsturnings. However, I will send a girl to guide you. You

could find room for her on the box-seat, could you not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I will send her. She knows the way thoroughly.

Only do not carry her off for good. Already some traders

have deprived me of one of my girls.”

Chichikov reassured his hostess on the point, and Ma-

dame plucked up courage enough to scan, first of all, the

housekeeper, who happened to be issuing from the store-

house with a bowl of honey, and, next, a young peasant

who happened to be standing at the gates; and, while

thus engaged, she became wholly absorbed in her domes-

tic pursuits. But why pay her so much attention? The

Widow Korobotchka, Madame Manilov, domestic life, non-

domestic life—away with them all! How strangely are things

compounded! In a trice may joy turn to sorrow, should

one halt long enough over it: in a trice only God can say

what ideas may strike one. You may fall even to thinking:

“After all, did Madame Korobotchka stand so very low in

the scale of human perfection? Was there really such a

very great gulf between her and Madame Manilov—be-

tween her and the Madame Manilov whom we have seen

entrenched behind the walls of a genteel mansion in which

there were a fine staircase of wrought metal and a number

of rich carpets; the Madame Manilov who spent most of

her time in yawning behind half-read books, and in hop-

ing for a visit from some socially distinguished person in

order that she might display her wit and carefully rehearsed

thoughts—thoughts which had been de rigeur in town for

a week past, yet which referred, not to what was going on

in her household or on her estate—both of which proper-

ties were at odds and ends, owing to her ignorance of the

art of managing them—but to the coming political revo-

lution in France and the direction in which fashionable

Catholicism was supposed to be moving? But away with

such things! Why need we speak of them? Yet how comes

it that suddenly into the midst of our careless, frivolous,

unthinking moments there may enter another, and a very

different, tendency?—that the smile may not have left a

human face before its owner will have radically changed

his or her nature (though not his or her environment)

with the result that the face will suddenly become lit with

73

Gogola radiance never before seen there? …

“Here is the britchka, here is the britchka!” exclaimed

Chichikov on perceiving that vehicle slowly advancing. “Ah,

you blockhead!” he went on to Selifan. “Why have you

been loitering about? I suppose last night’s fumes have

not yet left your brain?”

To this Selifan returned no reply.

“Good-bye, madam,” added the speaker. “But where is

the girl whom you promised me?”

“Here, Pelagea!” called the hostess to a wench of about

eleven who was dressed in home-dyed garments and could

boast of a pair of bare feet which, from a distance, might

almost have been mistaken for boots, so encrusted were

they with fresh mire. “Here, Pelagea! Come and show this

gentleman the way.”

Selifan helped the girl to ascend to the box-seat. Plac-

ing one foot upon the step by which the gentry mounted,

she covered the said step with mud, and then, ascending

higher, attained the desired position beside the coach-

man. Chichikov followed in her wake (causing the britchka

to heel over with his weight as he did so), and then settled

himself back into his place with an “All right! Good-bye,

madam!” as the horses moved away at a trot.

Selifan looked gloomy as he drove, but also very atten-

tive to his business. This was invariably his custom when

he had committed the fault of getting drunk. Also, the

horses looked unusually well-groomed. In particular, the

collar on one of them had been neatly mended, although

hitherto its state of dilapidation had been such as peren-

nially to allow the stuffing to protrude through the leather.

The silence preserved was well-nigh complete. Merely flour-

ishing his whip, Selifan spoke to the team no word of

instruction, although the skewbald was as ready as usual

to listen to conversation of a didactic nature, seeing that

at such times the reins hung loosely in the hands of the

loquacious driver, and the whip wandered merely as a matter

of form over the backs of the troika. This time, however,

there could be heard issuing from Selifan’s sullen lips only

the uniformly unpleasant exclamation, “Now then, you

brutes! Get on with you, get on with you!” The bay and

the Assessor too felt put out at not hearing themselves

called “my pets” or “good lads”; while, in addition, the

74

Dead Soulsskewbald came in for some nasty cuts across his sleek and

ample quarters. “What has put master out like this?”

thought the animal as it shook its head. “Heaven knows

where he does not keep beating me—across the back, and

even where I am tenderer still. Yes, he keeps catching the

whip in my ears, and lashing me under the belly.”

“To the right, eh?” snapped Selifan to the girl beside

him as he pointed to a rain-soaked road which trended

away through fresh green fields.

“No, no,” she replied. “I will show you the road when

the time comes.”

“Which way, then?” he asked again when they had pro-

ceeded a little further.

“This way.” And she pointed to the road just mentioned.

“Get along with you!” retorted the coachman. “That

does go to the right. You don’t know your right hand from

your left.”

The weather was fine, but the ground so excessively

sodden that the wheels of the britchka collected mire

until they had become caked as with a layer of felt, a

circumstance which greatly increased the weight of the

vehicle, and prevented it from clearing the neighbouring

parishes before the afternoon was arrived. Also, without

the girl’s help the finding of the way would have been

impossible, since roads wiggled away in every direction,

like crabs released from a net, and, but for the assistance

mentioned, Selifan would have found himself left to his

own devices. Presently she pointed to a building ahead,

with the words, “There is the main road.”

“And what is the building?” asked Selifan.

“A tavern,” she said.

“Then we can get along by ourselves,” he observed. “Do

you get down, and be off home.”

With that he stopped, and helped her to alight—mut-

tering as he did so: “Ah, you blackfooted creature!”

Chichikov added a copper groat, and she departed well

pleased with her ride in the gentleman’s carriage.

75

GogolCHAPTER IV

On reaching the tavern, Chichikov called a halt. His rea-

sons for this were twofold—namely, that he wanted to

rest the horses, and that he himself desired some refresh-

ment. In this connection the author feels bound to con-

fess that the appetite and the capacity of such men are

greatly to be envied. Of those well-to-do folk of St. Pe-

tersburg and Moscow who spend their time in considering

what they shall eat on the morrow, and in composing a

dinner for the day following, and who never sit down to a

meal without first of all injecting a pill and then swallow-

ing oysters and crabs and a quantity of other monsters,

while eternally departing for Karlsbad or the Caucasus, the

author has but a small opinion. Yes, they are not the

persons to inspire envy. Rather, it is the folk of the middle

classes—folk who at one posthouse call for bacon, and at

another for a sucking pig, and at a third for a steak of

sturgeon or a baked pudding with onions, and who can sit

down to table at any hour, as though they had never had

a meal in their lives, and can devour fish of all sorts, and

guzzle and chew it with a view to provoking further appe-

tite—these, I say, are the folk who enjoy heaven’s most

favoured gift. To attain such a celestial condition the great

folk of whom I have spoken would sacrifice half their serfs

and half their mortgaged and non-mortgaged property,

with the foreign and domestic improvements thereon, if

thereby they could compass such a stomach as is pos-

sessed by the folk of the middle class. But, unfortunately,

neither money nor real estate, whether improved or non-

improved, can purchase such a stomach.

The little wooden tavern, with its narrow, but hospi-

table, curtain suspended from a pair of rough-hewn door-

posts like old church candlesticks, seemed to invite

Chichikov to enter. True, the establishment was only a

Russian hut of the ordinary type, but it was a hut of larger

dimensions than usual, and had around its windows and

gables carved and patterned cornices of bright-coloured

wood which threw into relief the darker hue of the walls,

and consorted well with the flowered pitchers painted on

the shutters.

Ascending the narrow wooden staircase to the upper

76

Dead Soulsfloor, and arriving upon a broad landing, Chichikov found

himself confronted with a creaking door and a stout old

woman in a striped print gown. “This way, if you please,”

she said. Within the apartment designated Chichikov en-

countered the old friends which one invariably finds in

such roadside hostelries—to wit, a heavy samovar, four

smooth, bescratched walls of white pine, a three-cornered

press with cups and teapots, egg-cups of gilded china

standing in front of ikons suspended by blue and red

ribands, a cat lately delivered of a family, a mirror which

gives one four eyes instead of two and a pancake for a

face, and, beside the ikons, some bunches of herbs and

carnations of such faded dustiness that, should one at-

tempt to smell them, one is bound to burst out sneezing.

“Have you a sucking-pig?” Chichikov inquired of the

landlady as she stood expectantly before him.

“Yes.”

“And some horse-radish and sour cream?”

“Yes.”

“Then serve them.”

The landlady departed for the purpose, and returned with

a plate, a napkin (the latter starched to the consistency

of dried bark), a knife with a bone handle beginning to

turn yellow, a two-pronged fork as thin as a wafer, and a

salt-cellar incapable of being made to stand upright.

Following the accepted custom, our hero entered into

conversation with the woman, and inquired whether she

herself or a landlord kept the tavern; how much income

the tavern brought in; whether her sons lived with her;

whether the oldest was a bachelor or married; whom the

eldest had taken to wife; whether the dowry had been

large; whether the father-in-law had been satisfied, and

whether the said father-in-law had not complained of re-

ceiving too small a present at the wedding. In short,

Chichikov touched on every conceivable point. Likewise

(of course) he displayed some curiosity as to the land-

owners of the neighbourhood. Their names, he ascertained,

were Blochin, Potchitaev, Minoi, Cheprakov, and

Sobakevitch.

“Then you are acquainted with Sobakevitch?” he said;

whereupon the old woman informed him that she knew

not only Sobakevitch, but also Manilov, and that the lat-

77

Gogolter was the more delicate eater of the two, since, whereas

Manilov always ordered a roast fowl and some veal and

mutton, and then tasted merely a morsel of each,

Sobakevitch would order one dish only, but consume the

whole of it, and then demand more at the same price.

Whilst Chichikov was thus conversing and partaking of

the sucking pig until only a fragment of it seemed likely

to remain, the sound of an approaching vehicle made it-

self heard. Peering through the window, he saw draw up

to the tavern door a light britchka drawn by three fine

horses. From it there descended two men—one flaxen-

haired and tall, and the other dark-haired and of slighter

build. While the flaxen-haired man was clad in a dark-blue

coat, the other one was wrapped in a coat of striped

pattern. Behind the britchka stood a second, but an empty,

turn-out, drawn by four long-coated steeds in ragged

collars and rope harnesses. The flaxen-haired man lost no

time in ascending the staircase, while his darker friend

remained below to fumble at something in the britchka,

talking, as he did so, to the driver of the vehicle which

stood hitched behind. Somehow, the dark-haired man’s

voice struck Chichikov as familiar; and as he was taking

another look at him the flaxen-haired gentleman entered

the room. The newcomer was a man of lofty stature, with

a small red moustache and a lean, hard-bitten face whose

redness made it evident that its acquaintance, if not with

the smoke of gunpowder, at all events with that of to-

bacco, was intimate and extensive. Nevertheless he greeted

Chichikov civilly, and the latter returned his bow. Indeed,

the pair would have entered into conversation, and have

made one another’s acquaintance (since a beginning was

made with their simultaneously expressing satisfaction at

the circumstance that the previous night’s rain had laid

the dust on the roads, and thereby made driving cool and

pleasant) when the gentleman’s darker-favoured friend also

entered the room, and, throwing his cap upon the table,

pushed back a mass of dishevelled black locks from his

brow. The latest arrival was a man of medium height, but

well put together, and possessed of a pair of full red cheeks,

a set of teeth as white as snow, and coal-black whiskers.

Indeed, so fresh was his complexion that it seemed to

have been compounded of blood and milk, while health

78

Dead Soulsdanced in his every feature.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he cried with a gesture of astonishment at

the sight of Chichikov. “What chance brings you here?”

Upon that Chichikov recognised Nozdrev—the man whom

he had met at dinner at the Public Prosecutor’s, and who,

within a minute or two of the introduction, had become

so intimate with his fellow guest as to address him in the

second person singular, in spite of the fact that Chichikov

had given him no opportunity for doing so.

“Where have you been to-day?” Nozdrev inquired, and,

without waiting for an answer, went on: “For myself, I am

just from the fair, and completely cleaned out. Actually, I

have had to do the journey back with stage horses! Look

out of the window, and see them for yourself.” And he

turned Chichikov’s head so sharply in the desired direction

that he came very near to bumping it against the window

frame. “Did you ever see such a bag of tricks? The cursed

things have only just managed to get here. In fact, on the

way I had to transfer myself to this fellow’s britchka.” He

indicated his companion with a finger. “By the way, don’t

you know one another? He is Mizhuev, my brother-in-law.

He and I were talking of you only this morning. ‘Just you

see,’ said I to him, ‘if we do not fall in with Chichikov

before we have done.’ Heavens, how completely cleaned

out I am! Not only have I lost four good horses, but also

my watch and chain.” Chichikov perceived that in very

truth his interlocutor was minus the articles named, as

well as that one of Nozdrev’s whiskers was less bushy in

appearance than the other one. “Had I had another twenty

roubles in my pocket,” went on Nozdrev, “I should have

won back all that I have lost, as well as have pouched a

further thirty thousand. Yes, I give you my word of honour

on that.”

“But you were saying the same thing when last I met

you,” put in the flaxen-haired man. “Yet, even though I

lent you fifty roubles, you lost them all.”

“But I should not have lost them this time. Don’t try to

make me out a fool. I should not have lost them, I tell

you. Had I only played the right card, I should have bro-

ken the bank.”

“But you did not break the bank,” remarked the flaxen-

haired man.

79

Gogol“No. That was because I did not play my cards right.

But what about your precious major’s play? Is that good?”

“Good or not, at least he beat you.”

“Splendid of him! Nevertheless I will get my own back.

Let him play me at doubles, and we shall soon see what

sort of a player he is! Friend Chichikov, at first we had a

glorious time, for the fair was a tremendous success. In-

deed, the tradesmen said that never yet had there been

such a gathering. I myself managed to sell everything

from my estate at a good price. In fact, we had a magnifi-

cent time. I can’t help thinking of it, devil take me! But

what a pity you were not there! Three versts from the

town there is quartered a regiment of dragoons, and you

would scarcely believe what a lot of officers it has. Forty

at least there are, and they do a fine lot of knocking

about the town and drinking. In particular, Staff-Captain

Potsieluev is a splendid fellow! You should just see his

moustache! Why, he calls good claret ‘trash’! ‘Bring me

some of the usual trash,’ is his way of ordering it. And

Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov, too! He is as delightful as the

other man. In fact, I may say that every one of the lot is

a rake. I spent my whole time with them, and you can

imagine that Ponomarev, the wine merchant, did a fine

trade indeed! All the same, he is a rascal, you know, and

ought not to be dealt with, for he puts all sorts of rub-

bish into his liquor—Indian wood and burnt cork and

elderberry juice, the villain! Nevertheless, get him to pro-

duce a bottle from what he calls his ‘special cellar,’ and

you will fancy yourself in the seventh heaven of delight.

And what quantities of champagne we drank! Compared

with it, provincial stuff is kvass*. Try to imagine not merely

Clicquot, but a sort of blend of Clicquot and Matradura—

Clicquot of double strength. Also Ponomarev produced a

bottle of French stuff which he calls ‘Bonbon.’ Had it a

bouquet, ask you? Why, it had the bouquet of a rose

garden, of anything else you like. What times we had, to

be sure! Just after we had left Pnomarev’s place, some

prince or another arrived in the town, and sent out for

some champagne; but not a bottle was there left, for the

officers had drunk every one! Why, I myself got through

seventeen bottles at a sitting.”

*A liquor distilled from fermented bread crusts or sour fruit.

80

Dead Souls“Come, come! You can’t have got through seventeen,”

remarked the flaxen-haired man.

“But I did, I give my word of honour,” retorted Nozdrev.

“Imagine what you like, but you didn’t drink even ten

bottles at a sitting.”

“Will you bet that I did not?”

“No; for what would be the use of betting about it?”

“Then at least wager the gun which you have bought.”

“No, I am not going to do anything of the kind.”

“Just as an experiment?”

“No.”

“It is as well for you that you don’t, since, otherwise,

you would have found yourself minus both gun and cap.

However, friend Chichikov, it is a pity you were not there.

Had you been there, I feel sure you would have found

yourself unable to part with Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov. You

and he would have hit it off splendidly. You know, he is

quite a different sort from the Public Prosecutor and our

other provincial skinflints—fellows who shiver in their shoes

before they will spend a single kopeck. HE will play faro,

or anything else, and at any time. Why did you not come

with us, instead of wasting your time on cattle breeding

or something of the sort? But never mind. Embrace me. I

like you immensely. Mizhuev, see how curiously things

have turned out. Chichikov has nothing to do with me, or

I with him, yet here is he come from God knows where,

and landed in the very spot where I happen to be living! I

may tell you that, no matter how many carriages I pos-

sessed, I should gamble the lot away. Recently I went in

for a turn at billiards, and lost two jars of pomade, a china

teapot, and a guitar. Then I staked some more things,

and, like a fool, lost them all, and six roubles in addition.

What a dog is that Kuvshinnikov! He and I attended nearly

every ball in the place. In particular, there was a woman—

decolletee, and such a swell! I merely thought to myself,

‘The devil take her!’ but Kuvshinnikov is such a wag that

he sat down beside her, and began paying her strings of

compliments in French. However, I did not neglect the

damsels altogether—although he calls that sort of thing

‘going in for strawberries.’ By the way, I have a splendid

piece of fish and some caviare with me. ’Tis all I have

brought back! In fact it is a lucky chance that I happened

81

Gogolto buy the stuff before my money was gone. Where are

you for?”

“I am about to call on a friend.”

“On what friend? Let him go to the devil, and come to

my place instead.”

“I cannot, I cannot. I have business to do.”

“Oh, business again! I thought so!”

“But I have business to do—and pressing business at

that.”

“I wager that you’re lying. If not, tell me whom you’re

going to call upon.”

“Upon Sobakevitch.”

Instantly Nozdrev burst into a laugh compassable only

by a healthy man in whose head every tooth still remains

as white as sugar. By this I mean the laugh of quivering

cheeks, the laugh which causes a neighbour who is sleep-

ing behind double doors three rooms away to leap from

his bed and exclaim with distended eyes, “Hullo! Some-

thing has upset him!”

“What is there to laugh at?” asked Chichikov, a trifle

nettled; but Nozdrev laughed more unrestrainedly than

ever, ejaculating: “Oh, spare us all! The thing is so amus-

ing that I shall die of it!”

“I say that there is nothing to laugh at,” repeated

Chichikov. “It is in fulfilment of a promise that I am on

my way to Sobakevitch’s.”

“Then you will scarcely be glad to be alive when you’ve

got there, for he is the veriest miser in the countryside.

Oh, I know you. However, if you think to find there either

faro or a bottle of ‘Bonbon’ you are mistaken. Look here,

my good friend. Let Sobakevitch go to the devil, and come

to my place, where at least I shall have a piece of stur-

geon to offer you for dinner. Ponomarev said to me on

parting: ‘This piece is just the thing for you. Even if you

were to search the whole market, you would never find a

better one.’ But of course he is a terrible rogue. I said to

him outright: ‘You and the Collector of Taxes are the two

greatest skinflints in the town.’ But he only stroked his

beard and smiled. Every day I used to breakfast with

Kuvshinnikov in his restaurant. Well, what I was nearly

forgetting is this: that, though I am aware that you can’t

forgo your engagement, I am not going to give you up—

82

Dead Soulsno, not for ten thousand roubles of money. I tell you that

in advance.”

Here he broke off to run to the window and shout to his

servant (who was holding a knife in one hand and a crust

of bread and a piece of sturgeon in the other—he had

contrived to filch the latter while fumbling in the britchka

for something else):

“Hi, Porphyri! Bring here that puppy, you rascal! What a

puppy it is! Unfortunately that thief of a landlord has

given it nothing to eat, even though I have promised him

the roan filly which, as you may remember, I swopped

from Khvostirev.” As a matter of act, Chichikov had never

in his life seen either Khvostirev or the roan filly.

“Barin, do you wish for anything to eat?” inquired the

landlady as she entered.

“No, nothing at all. Ah, friend Chichikov, what times we

had! Yes, give me a glass of vodka, old woman. What sort

to you keep?”

“Aniseed.”

“Then bring me a glass of it,” repeated Nozdrev.

“And one for me as well,” added the flaxen-haired man.

“At the theatre,” went on Nozdrev, “there was an ac-

tress who sang like a canary. Kuvshinnikov, who happened

to be sitting with me, said: ‘My boy, you had better go

and gather that strawberry.’ As for the booths at the fair,

they numbered, I should say, fifty.” At this point he broke

off to take the glass of vodka from the landlady, who

bowed low in acknowledgement of his doing so. At the

same moment Porphyri—a fellow dressed like his master

(that is to say, in a greasy, wadded overcoat)—entered

with the puppy.

“Put the brute down here,” commanded Nozdrev, “and

then fasten it up.”

Porphyri deposited the animal upon the floor; where-

upon it proceeded to act after the manner of dogs.

“There’s a puppy for you!” cried Nozdrev, catching hold

of it by the back, and lifting it up. The puppy uttered a

piteous yelp.

“I can see that you haven’t done what I told you to

do,” he continued to Porphyri after an inspection of the

animal’s belly. “You have quite forgotten to brush him.”

“I did brush him,” protested Porphyri.

83

Gogol“Then where did these fleas come from?”

“I cannot think. Perhaps they have leapt into his coat

out of the britchka.”

“You liar! As a matter of fact, you have forgotten to

brush him. Nevertheless, look at these ears, Chichikov.

Just feel them.”

“Why should I? Without doing that, I can see that he is

well-bred.”

“Nevertheless, catch hold of his ears and feel them.”

To humour the fellow Chichikov did as he had requested,

remarking: “Yes, he seems likely to turn out well.”

“And feel the coldness of his nose! Just take it in your

hand.”

Not wishing to offend his interlocutor, Chichikov felt

the puppy’s nose, saying: “Some day he will have an ex-

cellent scent.”

“Yes, will he not? ’Tis the right sort of muzzle for that.

I must say that I have long been wanting such a puppy.

Porphyri, take him away again.”

Porphyri lifted up the puppy, and bore it downstairs.

“Look here, Chichikov,” resumed Nozdrev. “You must come

to my place. It lies only five versts away, and we can go

there like the wind, and you can visit Sobakevitch after-

wards.”

“Shall I, or shall I not, go to Nozdrev’s?” reflected

Chichikov. “Is he likely to prove any more useful than the

rest? Well, at least he is as promising, even though he has

lost so much at play. But he has a head on his shoulders,

and therefore I must go carefully if I am to tackle him

concerning my scheme.”

With that he added aloud: “Very well, I will come with

you, but do not let us be long, for my time is very pre-

cious.”

“That’s right, that’s right!” cried Nozdrev. “Splendid,

splendid! Let me embrace you!” And he fell upon Chichikov’s

neck. “All three of us will go.”

“No, no,” put in the flaxen-haired man. “You must ex-

cuse me, for I must be off home.”

“Rubbish, rubbish! I am NOT going to excuse you.”

“But my wife will be furious with me. You and Monsieur

Chichikov must change into the other britchka.”

“Come, come! The thing is not to be thought of.”

84

Dead SoulsThe flaxen-haired man was one of those people in whose

character, at first sight, there seems to lurk a certain

grain of stubbornness—so much so that, almost before

one has begun to speak, they are ready to dispute one’s

words, and to disagree with anything that may be op-

posed to their peculiar form of opinion. For instance, they

will decline to have folly called wisdom, or any tune danced

to but their own. Always, however, will there become

manifest in their character a soft spot, and in the end

they will accept what hitherto they have denied, and call

what is foolish sensible, and even dance—yes, better than

any one else will do—to a tune set by some one else. In

short, they generally begin well, but always end badly.

“Rubbish!” said Nozdrev in answer to a further objec-

tion on his brother-in-law’s part. And, sure enough, no

sooner had Nozdrev clapped his cap upon his head than

the flaxen-haired man started to follow him and his com-

panion.

“But the gentleman has not paid for the vodka?” put in

the old woman.

“All right, all right, good mother. Look here, brother-in-

law. Pay her, will you, for I have not a kopeck left.”

“How much?” inquired the brother-in-law.

“What, sir? Eighty kopecks, if you please,” replied the

old woman.

“A lie! Give her half a rouble. That will be quite enough.”

“No, it will NOT, barin,” protested the old woman. How-

ever, she took the money gratefully, and even ran to the

door to open it for the gentlemen. As a matter of fact,

she had lost nothing by the transaction, since she had

demanded fully a quarter more than the vodka was worth.

The travellers then took their seats, and since Chichikov’s

britchka kept alongside the britchka wherein Nozdrev and

his brother-in-law were seated, it was possible for all three

men to converse together as they proceeded. Behind them

came Nozdrev’s smaller buggy, with its team of lean stage

horses and Porphyri and the puppy. But inasmuch as the

conversation which the travellers maintained was not of a

kind likely to interest the reader, I might do worse than

say something concerning Nozdrev himself, seeing that

he is destined to play no small role in our story.

Nozdrev’s face will be familiar to the reader, seeing that

85

Gogolevery one must have encountered many such. Fellows of

the kind are known as “gay young sparks,” and, even in

their boyhood and school days, earn a reputation for be-

ing bons camarades (though with it all they come in for

some hard knocks) for the reason that their faces evince

an element of frankness, directness, and enterprise which

enables them soon to make friends, and, almost before

you have had time to look around, to start addressing you

in the second person singular. Yet, while cementing such

friendships for all eternity, almost always they begin quar-

relling the same evening, since, throughout, they are a

loquacious, dissipated, high-spirited, over-showy tribe. In-

deed, at thirty-five Nozdrev was just what he had been an

eighteen and twenty—he was just such a lover of fast

living. Nor had his marriage in any way changed him, and

the less so since his wife had soon departed to another

world, and left behind her two children, whom he did not

want, and who were therefore placed in the charge of a

good-looking nursemaid. Never at any time could he re-

main at home for more than a single day, for his keen

scent could range over scores and scores of versts, and

detect any fair which promised balls and crowds. Conse-

quently in a trice he would be there—quarrelling, and

creating disturbances over the gaming-table (like all men

of his type, he had a perfect passion for cards) yet playing

neither a faultless nor an over-clean game, since he was

both a blunderer and able to indulge in a large number of

illicit cuts and other devices. The result was that the game

often ended in another kind of sport altogether. That is to

say, either he received a good kicking, or he had his thick

and very handsome whiskers pulled; with the result that

on certain occasions he returned home with one of those

appendages looking decidedly ragged. Yet his plump,

healthy-looking cheeks were so robustly constituted, and

contained such an abundance of recreative vigour, that a

new whisker soon sprouted in place of the old one, and

even surpassed its predecessor. Again (and the following

is a phenomenon peculiar to Russia) a very short time

would have elapsed before once more he would be con-

sorting with the very cronies who had recently cuffed him—

and consorting with them as though nothing whatsoever

had happened—no reference to the subject being made

86

Dead Soulsby him, and they too holding their tongues.

In short, Nozdrev was, as it were, a man of incident.

Never was he present at any gathering without some sort

of a fracas occurring thereat. Either he would require to

be expelled from the room by gendarmes, or his friends

would have to kick him out into the street. At all events,

should neither of those occurrences take place, at least he

did something of a nature which would not otherwise have

been witnessed. That is to say, should he not play the fool

in a buffet to such an extent as to make very one smile,

you may be sure that he was engaged in lying to a degree

which at times abashed even himself. Moreover, the man

lied without reason. For instance, he would begin telling

a story to the effect that he possessed a blue-coated or a

red-coated horse; until, in the end, his listeners would be

forced to leave him with the remark, “You are giving us

some fine stuff, old fellow!” Also, men like Nozdrev have

a passion for insulting their neighbours without the least

excuse afforded. (For that matter, even a man of good

standing and of respectable exterior—a man with a star

on his breast—may unexpectedly press your hand one day,

and begin talking to you on subjects of a nature to give

food for serious thought. Yet just as unexpectedly may

that man start abusing you to your face—and do so in a

manner worthy of a collegiate registrar rather than of a

man who wears a star on his breast and aspires to con-

verse on subjects which merit reflection. All that one can

do in such a case is to stand shrugging one’s shoulders in

amazement.) Well, Nozdrev had just such a weakness. The

more he became friendly with a man, the sooner would he

insult him, and be ready to spread calumnies as to his

reputation. Yet all the while he would consider himself

the insulted one’s friend, and, should he meet him again,

would greet him in the most amicable style possible, and

say, “You rascal, why have you given up coming to see

me.” Thus, taken all round, Nozdrev was a person of many

aspects and numerous potentialities. In one and the same

breath would he propose to go with you whithersoever

you might choose (even to the very ends of the world

should you so require) or to enter upon any sort of an

enterprise with you, or to exchange any commodity for

any other commodity which you might care to name. Guns,

87

Gogolhorses, dogs, all were subjects for barter—though not for

profit so far as you were concerned. Such traits are mostly

the outcome of a boisterous temperament, as is addition-

ally exemplified by the fact that if at a fair he chanced to

fall in with a simpleton and to fleece him, he would then

proceed to buy a quantity of the very first articles which

came to hand—horse-collars, cigar-lighters, dresses for

his nursemaid, foals, raisins, silver ewers, lengths of holland,

wheatmeal, tobacco, revolvers, dried herrings, pictures,

whetstones, crockery, boots, and so forth, until every atom

of his money was exhausted. Yet seldom were these ar-

ticles conveyed home, since, as a rule, the same day saw

them lost to some more skilful gambler, in addition to his

pipe, his tobacco-pouch, his mouthpiece, his four-horsed

turn-out, and his coachman: with the result that, stripped

to his very shirt, he would be forced to beg the loan of a

vehicle from a friend.

Such was Nozdrev. Some may say that characters of his

type have become extinct, that Nozdrevs no longer exist.

Alas! such as say this will be wrong; for many a day must

pass before the Nozdrevs will have disappeared from our

ken. Everywhere they are to be seen in our midst—the

only difference between the new and the old being a dif-

ference of garments. Persons of superficial observation

are apt to consider that a man clad in a different coat is

quite a different person from what he used to be.

To continue. The three vehicles bowled up to the steps

of Nozdrev’s house, and their occupants alighted. But no

preparations whatsoever had been made for the guest’s

reception, for on some wooden trestles in the centre of

the dining-room a couple of peasants were engaged in

whitewashing the ceiling and drawling out an endless song

as they splashed their stuff about the floor. Hastily bid-

ding peasants and trestles to be gone, Nozdrev departed

to another room with further instructions. Indeed, so au-

dible was the sound of his voice as he ordered dinner that

Chichikov—who was beginning to feel hungry once more—

was enabled to gather that it would be at least five o’clock

before a meal of any kind would be available. On his re-

turn, Nozdrev invited his companions to inspect his es-

tablishment—even though as early as two o’clock he had

to announce that nothing more was to be seen.

88

Dead SoulsThe tour began with a view of the stables, where the

party saw two mares (the one a grey, and the other a

roan) and a colt; which latter animal, though far from

showy, Nozdrev declared to have cost him ten thousand

roubles.

“You never paid ten thousand roubles for the brute!”

exclaimed the brother-in-law. “He isn’t worth even a thou-

sand.”

“By God, I did pay ten thousand!” asserted Nozdrev.

“You can swear that as much as you like,” retorted the

other.

“Will you bet that I did not?” asked Nozdrev, but the

brother-in-law declined the offer.

Next, Nozdrev showed his guests some empty stalls where

a number of equally fine animals (so he alleged) had lately

stood. Also there was on view the goat which an old belief

still considers to be an indispensable adjunct to such places,

even though its apparent use is to pace up and down

beneath the noses of the horses as though the place be-

longed to it. Thereafter the host took his guests to look

at a young wolf which he had got tied to a chain. “He is

fed on nothing but raw meat,” he explained, “for I want

him to grow up as fierce as possible.” Then the party

inspected a pond in which there were “fish of such a size

that it would take two men all their time to lift one of

them out.”

This piece of information was received with renewed in-

credulity on the part of the brother-in-law.

“Now, Chichikov,” went on Nozdrev, “let me show you a

truly magnificent brace of dogs. The hardness of their

muscles will surprise you, and they have jowls as sharp as

needles.”

So saying, he led the way to a small, but neatly-built,

shed surrounded on every side with a fenced-in run. En-

tering this run, the visitors beheld a number of dogs of all

sorts and sizes and colours. In their midst Nozdrev looked

like a father lording it over his family circle. Erecting their

tails—their “stems,” as dog fanciers call those members—

the animals came bounding to greet the party, and fully a

score of them laid their paws upon Chichikov’s shoulders.

Indeed, one dog was moved with such friendliness that,

standing on its hind legs, it licked him on the lips, and so

89

Gogolforced him to spit. That done, the visitors duly inspected

the couple already mentioned, and expressed astonish-

ment at their muscles. True enough, they were fine ani-

mals. Next, the party looked at a Crimean bitch which,

though blind and fast nearing her end, had, two years

ago, been a truly magnificent dog. At all events, so said

Nozdrev. Next came another bitch—also blind; then an

inspection of the water-mill, which lacked the spindle-

socket wherein the upper stone ought to have been re-

volving—”fluttering,” to use the Russian peasant’s quaint

expression. “But never mind,” said Nozdrev. “Let us pro-

ceed to the blacksmith’s shop.” So to the blacksmith’s

shop the party proceeded, and when the said shop had

been viewed, Nozdrev said as he pointed to a field:

“In this field I have seen such numbers of hares as to

render the ground quite invisible. Indeed, on one occa-

sion I, with my own hands, caught a hare by the hind

legs.”

“You never caught a hare by the hind legs with your

hands!” remarked the brother-in-law.

“But I did” reiterated Nozdrev. “However, let me show

you the boundary where my lands come to an end.”

So saying, he started to conduct his guests across a

field which consisted mostly of moleheaps, and in which

the party had to pick their way between strips of ploughed

land and of harrowed. Soon Chichikov began to feel weary,

for the terrain was so low-lying that in many spots water

could be heard squelching underfoot, and though for a

while the visitors watched their feet, and stepped care-

fully, they soon perceived that such a course availed them

nothing, and took to following their noses, without ei-

ther selecting or avoiding the spots where the mire hap-

pened to be deeper or the reverse. At length, when a

considerable distance had been covered, they caught sight

of a boundary-post and a narrow ditch.

“That is the boundary,” said Nozdrev. “Everything that

you see on this side of the post is mine, as well as the

forest on the other side of it, and what lies beyond the

forest.”

“When did that forest become yours?” asked the brother-

in-law. “It cannot be long since you purchased it, for it

never used to be yours.”

90

Dead Souls“Yes, it isn’t long since I purchased it,” said Nozdrev.

“How long?”

“How long? Why, I purchased it three days ago, and

gave a pretty sum for it, as the devil knows!”

“Indeed? Why, three days ago you were at the fair?”

“Wiseacre! Cannot one be at a fair and buy land at the

same time? Yes, I was at the fair, and my steward bought

the land in my absence.”

“Oh, your steward bought it.” The brother-in-law seemed

doubtful, and shook his head.

The guests returned by the same route as that by which

they had come; whereafter, on reaching the house, Nozdrev

conducted them to his study, which contained not a trace

of the things usually to be found in such apartments—

such things as books and papers. On the contrary, the

only articles to be seen were a sword and a brace of guns—

the one “of them worth three hundred roubles,” and the

other “about eight hundred.” The brother-in-law inspected

the articles in question, and then shook his head as be-

fore. Next, the visitors were shown some “real Turkish”

daggers, of which one bore the inadvertent inscription,

“Saveli Sibiriakov*, Master Cutler.” Then came a barrel-

organ, on which Nozdrev started to play some tune or

another. For a while the sounds were not wholly unpleas-

ing, but suddenly something seemed to go wrong, for a

mazurka started, to be followed by “Marlborough has gone

to the war,” and to this, again, there succeeded an anti-

quated waltz. Also, long after Nozdrev had ceased to turn

the handle, one particularly shrill-pitched pipe which had,

throughout, refused to harmonise with the rest kept up a

protracted whistling on its own account. Then followed

an exhibition of tobacco pipes—pipes of clay, of wood, of

meerschaum, pipes smoked and non-smoked; pipes wrapped

in chamois leather and not so wrapped; an amber-mounted

hookah (a stake won at cards) and a tobacco pouch

(worked, it was alleged, by some countess who had fallen

in love with Nozdrev at a posthouse, and whose handi-

work Nozdrev averred to constitute the “sublimity of su-

perfluity”—a term which, in the Nozdrevian vocabulary,

purported to signify the acme of perfection).

Finally, after some hors-d’oeuvres of sturgeon’s back,

*That is to say, a distinctively Russian name.

91

Gogolthey sat down to table—the time being then nearly five

o’clock. But the meal did not constitute by any means the

best of which Chichikov had ever partaken, seeing that

some of the dishes were overcooked, and others were

scarcely cooked at all. Evidently their compounder had

trusted chiefly to inspiration—she had laid hold of the

first thing which had happened to come to hand. For

instance, had pepper represented the nearest article within

reach, she had added pepper wholesale. Had a cabbage

chanced to be so encountered, she had pressed it also

into the service. And the same with milk, bacon, and

peas. In short, her rule seemed to have been “Make a hot

dish of some sort, and some sort of taste will result.” For

the rest, Nozdrev drew heavily upon the wine. Even before

the soup had been served, he had poured out for each

guest a bumper of port and another of “haut” sauterne.

(Never in provincial towns is ordinary, vulgar sauterne even

procurable.) Next, he called for a bottle of madeira—”as

fine a tipple as ever a field-marshall drank”; but the madeira

only burnt the mouth, since the dealers, familiar with the

taste of our landed gentry (who love “good” madeira)

invariably doctor the stuff with copious dashes of rum

and Imperial vodka, in the hope that Russian stomachs

will thus be enabled to carry off the lot. After this bottle

Nozdrev called for another and “a very special” brand—a

brand which he declared to consist of a blend of burgundy

and champagne, and of which he poured generous mea-

sures into the glasses of Chichikov and the brother-in-law

as they sat to right and left of him. But since Chichikov

noticed that, after doing so, he added only a scanty mo-

dicum of the mixture to his own tumbler, our hero deter-

mined to be cautious, and therefore took advantage of a

moment when Nozdrev had again plunged into conversa-

tion and was yet a third time engaged in refilling his

brother-in-law’s glass, to contrive to upset his (Chichikov’s)

glass over his plate. In time there came also to table a

tart of mountain-ashberries—berries which the host de-

clared to equal, in taste, ripe plums, but which, curiously

enough, smacked more of corn brandy. Next, the com-

pany consumed a sort of pasty of which the precise name

has escaped me, but which the host rendered differently

even on the second occasion of its being mentioned. The

92

Dead Soulsmeal over, and the whole tale of wines tried, the guests

still retained their seats—a circumstance which embar-

rassed Chichikov, seeing that he had no mind to propound

his pet scheme in the presence of Nozdrev’s brother-in-

law, who was a complete stranger to him. No, that sub-

ject called for amicable and private conversation. Never-

theless, the brother-in-law appeared to bode little dan-

ger, seeing that he had taken on board a full cargo, and

was now engaged in doing nothing of a more menacing

nature than picking his nose. At length he himself noticed

that he was not altogether in a responsible condition;

wherefore he rose and began to make excuses for depart-

ing homewards, though in a tone so drowsy and lethargic

that, to quote the Russian proverb, he might almost have

been “pulling a collar on to a horse by the clasps.”

“No, no!” cried Nozdrev. “I am not going to let you

go.”

“But I must go,” replied the brother-in-law. “Don’t dry

to hinder me. You are annoying me greatly.”

“Rubbish! We are going to play a game of banker.”

“No, no. You must play it without me, my friend. My

wife is expecting me at home, and I must go and tell her

all about the fair. Yes, I must go if I am to please her. Do

not try to detain me.”

“Your wife be—! But have you really an important piece

of business with her?”

“No, no, my friend. The real reason is that she is a good

and trustful woman, and that she does a great deal for

me. The tears spring to my eyes as I think of it. Do not

detain me. As an honourable man I say that I must go. Of

that I do assure you in all sincerity.”

“Oh, let him go,” put in Chichikov under his breath.

“What use will he be here?”

“Very well,” said Nozdrev, “though, damn it, I do not

like fellows who lose their heads.” Then he added to his

brother-in-law: “All right, Thetuk*. Off you go to your

wife and your woman’s talk and may the devil go with

you!”

*A jeering appellation which owes its origin to the fact

that certain Russians cherish a prejudice against the ini-

tial character of the word—namely, the Greek theta, or

th.

93

Gogol“Do not insult me with the term Thetuk,” retorted the

brother-in-law. “To her I owe my life, and she is a dear,

good woman, and has shown me much affection. At the

very thought of it I could weep. You see, she will be

asking me what I have seen at the fair, and tell her about

it I must, for she is such a dear, good woman.”

“Then off you go to her with your pack of lies. Here is

your cap.”

“No, good friend, you are not to speak of her like that.

By so doing you offend me greatly—I say that she is a

dear, good woman.”

“Then run along home to her.”

“Yes, I am just going. Excuse me for having been unable

to stay. Gladly would I have stayed, but really I cannot.”

The brother-in-law repeated his excuses again and again

without noticing that he had entered the britchka, that it

had passed through the gates, and that he was now in the

open country. Permissibly we may suppose that his wife

succeeded in gleaning from him few details of the fair.

“What a fool!” said Nozdrev as, standing by the window,

he watched the departing vehicle. “Yet his off-horse is

not such a bad one. For a long time past I have been

wanting to get hold of it. A man like that is simply im-

possible. Yes, he is a Thetuk, a regular Thetuk.”

With that they repaired to the parlour, where, on Porphyri

bringing candles, Chichikov perceived that his host had

produced a pack of cards.

“I tell you what,” said Nozdrev, pressing the sides of

the pack together, and then slightly bending them, so

that the pack cracked and a card flew out. “How would it

be if, to pass the time, I were to make a bank of three

hundred?”

Chichikov pretended not to have heard him, but remarked

with an air of having just recollected a forgotten point:

“By the way, I had omitted to say that I have a request

to make of you.”

“What request?”

“First give me your word that you will grant it.”

“What is the request, I say?”

“Then you give me your word, do you?”

“Certainly.”

“Your word of honour?”

94

Dead Souls“My word of honour.”

“This, then, is my request. I presume that you have a

large number of dead serfs whose names have not yet

been removed from the revision list?”

“I have. But why do you ask?”

“Because I want you to make them over to me.”

“Of what use would they be to you?”

“Never mind. I have a purpose in wanting them.”

“What purpose?”

“A purpose which is strictly my own affair. In short, I

need them.”

“You seem to have hatched a very fine scheme. Out with

it, now! What is in the wind?”

“How could I have hatched such a scheme as you say?

One could not very well hatch a scheme out of such a

trifle as this.”

“Then for what purpose do you want the serfs?”

“Oh, the curiosity of the man! He wants to poke his

fingers into and smell over every detail!”

“Why do you decline to say what is in your mind? At all

events, until you DO say I shall not move in the matter.”

“But how would it benefit you to know what my plans

are? A whim has seized me. That is all. Nor are you playing

fair. You have given me your word of honour, yet now you

are trying to back out of it.”

“No matter what you desire me to do, I decline to do it

until you have told me your purpose.”

“What am I to say to the fellow?” thought Chichikov.

He reflected for a moment, and then explained that he

wanted the dead souls in order to acquire a better stand-

ing in society, since at present he possessed little landed

property, and only a handful of serfs.

“You are lying,” said Nozdrev without even letting him

finish. “Yes, you are lying my good friend.”

Chichikov himself perceived that his device had been a

clumsy one, and his pretext weak. “I must tell him straight

out,” he said to himself as he pulled his wits together.

“Should I tell you the truth,” he added aloud, “I must

beg of you not to repeat it. The truth is that I am think-

ing of getting married. But, unfortunately, my betrothed’s

father and mother are very ambitious people, and do not

want me to marry her, since they desire the bridegroom to

95

Gogolown not less than three hundred souls, whereas I own but

a hundred and fifty, and that number is not sufficient.”

“Again you are lying,” said Nozdrev.

“Then look here; I have been lying only to this extent.”

And Chichikov marked off upon his little finger a minute

portion.

“Nevertheless I will bet my head that you have been

lying throughout.”

“Come, come! That is not very civil of you. Why should

I have been lying?”

“Because I know you, and know that you are a regular

skinflint. I say that in all friendship. If I possessed any

power over you I should hang you to the nearest tree.”

This remark hurt Chichikov, for at any time he disliked

expressions gross or offensive to decency, and never al-

lowed any one—no, not even persons of the highest rank—

to behave towards him with an undue measure of famil-

iarity. Consequently his sense of umbrage on the present

occasion was unbounded.

“By God, I would hang you!” repeated Nozdrev. “I say

this frankly, and not for the purpose of offending you, but

simply to communicate to you my friendly opinion.”

“To everything there are limits,” retorted Chichikov stiffly.

“If you want to indulge in speeches of that sort you had

better return to the barracks.”

However, after a pause he added:

“If you do not care to give me the serfs, why not sell

them?”

“Sell them? I know you, you rascal! You wouldn’t give

me very much for them, would you?”

“A nice fellow! Look here. What are they to you? So

many diamonds, eh?”

“I thought so! I know you!”

“Pardon me, but I could wish that you were a member

of the Jewish persuasion. You would give them to me fast

enough then.”

“On the contrary, to show you that I am not a usurer, I

will decline to ask of you a single kopeck for the serfs. All

that you need do is to buy that colt of mine, and then I

will throw in the serfs in addition.”

“But what should I want with your colt?” said Chichikov,

genuinely astonished at the proposal.

96

Dead Souls“What should you want with him? Why, I have bought

him for ten thousand roubles, and am ready to let you

have him for four.”

“I ask you again: of what use could the colt possibly be

to me? I am not the keeper of a breeding establishment.”

“Ah! I see that you fail to understand me. Let me sug-

gest that you pay down at once three thousand roubles of

the purchase money, and leave the other thousand until

later.”

“But I do not mean to buy the colt, damn him!”

“Then buy the roan mare.”

“No, nor the roan mare.”

“Then you shall have both the mare and the grey horse

which you have seen in my stables for two thousand

roubles.”

“I require no horses at all.”

“But you would be able to sell them again. You would

be able to get thrice their purchase price at the very first

fair that was held.”

“Then sell them at that fair yourself, seeing that you are

so certain of making a triple profit.”

“Oh, I should make it fast enough, only I want you to

benefit by the transaction.”

Chichikov duly thanked his interlocutor, but continued

to decline either the grey horse or the roan mare.

“Then buy a few dogs,” said Nozdrev. “I can sell you a

couple of hides a-quiver, ears well pricked, coats like quills,

ribs barrel-shaped, and paws so tucked up as scarcely to

graze the ground when they run.”

“Of what use would those dogs be to me? I am not a

sportsman.”

“But I want you to have the dogs. Listen. If you won’t

have the dogs, then buy my barrel-organ. ’Tis a splendid

instrument. As a man of honour I can tell you that, when

new, it cost me fifteen hundred roubles. Well, you shall

have it for nine hundred.”

“Come, come! What should I want with a barrel-organ?

I am not a German, to go hauling it about the roads and

begging for coppers.”

“But this is quite a different kind of organ from the one

which Germans take about with them. You see, it is a real

organ. Look at it for yourself. It is made of the best

97

Gogolwood. I will take you to have another view of it.”

And seizing Chichikov by the hand, Nozdrev drew him

towards the other room, where, in spite of the fact that

Chichikov, with his feet planted firmly on the floor, as-

sured his host, again and again, that he knew exactly

what the organ was like, he was forced once more to hear

how Marlborough went to the war.

“Then, since you don’t care to give me any money for

it,” persisted Nozdrev, “listen to the following proposal. I

will give you the barrel-organ and all the dead souls which

I possess, and in return you shall give me your britchka,

and another three hundred roubles into the bargain.”

“Listen to the man! In that case, what should I have

left to drive in?”

“Oh, I would stand you another britchka. Come to the

coach-house, and I will show you the one I mean. It only

needs repainting to look a perfectly splendid britchka.”

“The ramping, incorrigible devil!” thought Chichikov to

himself as at all hazards he resolved to escape from

britchkas, organs, and every species of dog, however

marvellously barrel-ribbed and tucked up of paw.

“And in exchange, you shall have the britchka, the bar-

rel-organ, and the dead souls,” repeated Nozdrev.

“I must decline the offer,” said Chichikov.

“And why?”

“Because I don’t want the things—I am full up already.”

“I can see that you don’t know how things should be

done between good friends and comrades. Plainly you are

a man of two faces.”

“What do you mean, you fool? Think for yourself. Why

should I acquire articles which I don’t want?”

“Say no more about it, if you please. I have quite taken

your measure. But see here. Should you care to play a

game of banker? I am ready to stake both the dead souls

and the barrel-organ at cards.”

“No; to leave an issue to cards means to submit oneself

to the unknown,” said Chichikov, covertly glancing at the

pack which Nozdrev had got in his hands. Somehow the

way in which his companion had cut that pack seemed to

him suspicious.

“Why ‘to the unknown’?” asked Nozdrev. “There is no

such thing as ‘the unknown.’ Should luck be on your side,

98

Dead Soulsyou may win the devil knows what a haul. Oh, luck, luck!”

he went on, beginning to deal, in the hope of raising a

quarrel. “Here is the cursed nine upon which, the other

night, I lost everything. All along I knew that I should

lose my money. Said I to myself: ‘The devil take you, you

false, accursed card!’”

Just as Nozdrev uttered the words Porphyri entered with

a fresh bottle of liquor; but Chichikov declined either to

play or to drink.

“Why do you refuse to play?” asked Nozdrev.

“Because I feel indisposed to do so. Moreover, I must

confess that I am no great hand at cards.”

“Why are you no great hand at them?”

Chichikov shrugged his shoulders. “Because I am not,”

he replied.

“You are no great hand at anything, I think.”

“What does that matter? God has made me so.”

“The truth is that you are a Thetuk, and nothing else.

Once upon a time I believed you to be a good fellow, but

now I see that you don’t understand civility. One cannot

speak to you as one would to an intimate, for there is no

frankness or sincerity about you. You are a regular

Sobakevitch—just such another as he.”

“For what reason are you abusing me? Am I in any way

at fault for declining to play cards? Sell me those souls if

you are the man to hesitate over such rubbish.”

“The foul fiend take you! I was about to have given

them to you for nothing, but now you shan’t have them

at all—not if you offer me three kingdoms in exchange.

Henceforth I will have nothing to do with you, you cob-

bler, you dirty blacksmith! Porphyri, go and tell the ostler

to give the gentleman’s horses no oats, but only hay.”

This development Chichikov had hardly expected.

“And do you,” added Nozdrev to his guest, “get out of

my sight.”

Yet in spite of this, host and guest took supper to-

gether—even though on this occasion the table was

adorned with no wines of fictitious nomenclature, but

only with a bottle which reared its solitary head beside a

jug of what is usually known as vin ordinaire. When supper

was over Nozdrev said to Chichikov as he conducted him

to a side room where a bed had been made up:

99

Gogol“This is where you are to sleep. I cannot very well wish

you good-night.”

Left to himself on Nozdrev’s departure, Chichikov felt in

a most unenviable frame of mind. Full of inward vexation,

he blamed himself bitterly for having come to see this

man and so wasted valuable time; but even more did he

blame himself for having told him of his scheme—for

having acted as carelessly as a child or a madman. Of a

surety the scheme was not one which ought to have been

confided to a man like Nozdrev, for he was a worthless

fellow who might lie about it, and append additions to it,

and spread such stories as would give rise to God knows

what scandals. “This is indeed bad!” Chichikov said to

himself. “I have been an absolute fool.” Consequently he

spent an uneasy night—this uneasiness being increased

by the fact that a number of small, but vigorous, insects

so feasted upon him that he could do nothing but scratch

the spots and exclaim, “The devil take you and Nozdrev

alike!” Only when morning was approaching did he fall

asleep. On rising, he made it his first business (after don-

ning dressing-gown and slippers) to cross the courtyard

to the stable, for the purpose of ordering Selifan to har-

ness the britchka. Just as he was returning from his er-

rand he encountered Nozdrev, clad in a dressing-gown,

and holding a pipe between his teeth.

Host and guest greeted one another in friendly fashion,

and Nozdrev inquired how Chichikov had slept.

“Fairly well,” replied Chichikov, but with a touch of dry-

ness in his tone.

“The same with myself,” said Nozdrev. “The truth is that

such a lot of nasty brutes kept crawling over me that even

to speak of it gives me the shudders. Likewise, as the

effect of last night’s doings, a whole squadron of soldiers

seemed to be camping on my chest, and giving me a

flogging. Ugh! And whom also do you think I saw in a

dream? You would never guess. Why, it was Staff-Captain

Potsieluev and Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov!”

“Yes,” though Chichikov to himself, “and I wish that

they too would give you a public thrashing!”

“I felt so ill!” went on Nozdrev. “And just after I had

fallen asleep something did come and sting me. Probably

it was a party of hag fleas. Now, dress yourself, and I will

100

Dead Soulsbe with you presently. First of all I must give that scoun-

drel of a bailiff a wigging.”

Chichikov departed to his own room to wash and dress;

which process completed, he entered the dining-room to

find the table laid with tea-things and a bottle of rum.

Clearly no broom had yet touched the place, for there

remained traces of the previous night’s dinner and supper

in the shape of crumbs thrown over the floor and tobacco

ash on the tablecloth. The host himself, when he entered,

was still clad in a dressing-gown exposing a hairy chest;

and as he sat holding his pipe in his hand, and drinking

tea from a cup, he would have made a model for the sort

of painter who prefers to portray gentlemen of the less

curled and scented order.

“What think you?” he asked of Chichikov after a short

silence. “Are you willing now to play me for those souls?”

“I have told you that I never play cards. If the souls are

for sale, I will buy them.”

“I decline to sell them. Such would not be the course

proper between friends. But a game of banker would be

quite another matter. Let us deal the cards.”

“I have told you that I decline to play.”

“And you will not agree to an exchange?”

“No.”

“Then look here. Suppose we play a game of chess. If

you win, the souls shall be yours. There are lot which I

should like to see crossed off the revision list. Hi, Porphyri!

Bring me the chessboard.”

“You are wasting your time. I will play neither chess nor

cards.”

“But chess is different from playing with a bank. In

chess there can be neither luck nor cheating, for every-

thing depends upon skill. In fact, I warn you that I can-

not possibly play with you unless you allow me a move or

two in advance.”

“The same with me,” thought Chichikov. “Shall I, or

shall I not, play this fellow? I used not to be a bad chess-

player, and it is a sport in which he would find it more

difficult to be up to his tricks.”

“Very well,” he added aloud. “I will play you at chess.”

“And stake the souls for a hundred roubles?” asked

Nozdrev.

101

Gogol“No. Why for a hundred? Would it not be sufficient to

stake them for fifty?”

“No. What would be the use of fifty? Nevertheless, for

the hundred roubles I will throw in a moderately old puppy,

or else a gold seal and watch-chain.”

“Very well,” assented Chichikov.

“Then how many moves are you going to allow me?”

“Is that to be part of the bargain? Why, none, of course.”

“At least allow me two.”

“No, none. I myself am only a poor player.”

“I know you and your poor play,” said Nozdrev, moving

a chessman.

“In fact, it is a long time since last I had a chessman in

my hand,” replied Chichikov, also moving a piece.

“Ah! I know you and your poor play,” repeated Nozdrev,

moving a second chessman.

“I say again that it is a long time since last I had a

chessman in my hand.” And Chichikov, in his turn, moved.

“Ah! I know you and your poor play,” repeated Nozdrev,

for the third time as he made a third move. At the same

moment the cuff of one of his sleeves happened to dis-

lodge another chessman from its position.

“Again, I say,” said Chichikov, “that ’tis a long time

since last—But hi! look here! Put that piece back in its

place!”

“What piece?”

“This one.” And almost as Chichikov spoke he saw a

third chessman coming into view between the queens.

God only knows whence that chessman had materialised.

“No, no!” shouted Chichikov as he rose from the table.

“It is impossible to play with a man like you. People don’t

move three pieces at once.”

“How ‘three pieces’? All that I have done is to make a

mistake—to move one of my pieces by accident. If you

like, I will forfeit it to you.”

“And whence has the third piece come?”

“What third piece?”

“The one now standing between the queens?”

“’Tis one of your own pieces. Surely you are forgetting?”

“No, no, my friend. I have counted every move, and can

remember each one. That piece has only just become added

to the board. Put it back in its place, I say.”

102

Dead Souls“Its place? Which is its place?” But Nozdrev had red-

dened a good deal. “I perceive you to be a strategist at

the game.”

“No, no, good friend. You are the strategist—though an

unsuccessful one, as it happens.”

“Then of what are you supposing me capable? Of cheat-

ing you?”

“I am not supposing you capable of anything. All that I

say is that I will not play with you any more.”

“But you can’t refuse to,” said Nozdrev, growing heated.

“You see, the game has begun.”

“Nevertheless, I have a right not to continue it, seeing

that you are not playing as an honest man should do.”

“You are lying—you cannot truthfully say that.”

“’Tis you who are lying.”

“But I have not cheated. Consequently you cannot refuse

to play, but must continue the game to a finish.”

“You cannot force me to play,” retorted Chichikov coldly

as, turning to the chessboard, he swept the pieces into

confusion.

Nozdrev approached Chichikov with a manner so threat-

ening that the other fell back a couple of paces.

“I will force you to play,” said Nozdrev. “It is no use you

making a mess of the chessboard, for I can remember every

move. We will replace the chessmen exactly as they were.”

“No, no, my friend. The game is over, and I play you no

more.”

“You say that you will not?”

“Yes. Surely you can see for yourself that such a thing is

impossible?”

“That cock won’t fight. Say at once that you refuse to

play with me.” And Nozdrev approached a step nearer.

“Very well; I do say that,” replied Chichikov, and at the

same moment raised his hands towards his face, for the

dispute was growing heated. Nor was the act of caution

altogether unwarranted, for Nozdrev also raised his fist,

and it may be that one of her hero’s plump, pleasant-

looking cheeks would have sustained an indelible insult

had not he (Chichikov) parried the blow and, seizing

Nozdrev by his whirling arms, held them fast.

“Porphyri! Pavlushka!” shouted Nozdrev as madly he

strove to free himself.

103

GogolOn hearing the words, Chichikov, both because he wished

to avoid rendering the servants witnesses of the unedify-

ing scene and because he felt that it would be of no avail

to hold Nozdrev any longer, let go of the latter’s arms;

but at the same moment Porphyri and Pavlushka entered

the room—a pair of stout rascals with whom it would be

unwise to meddle.

“Do you, or do you not, intend to finish the game?”

said Nozdrev. “Give me a direct answer.”

“No; it will not be possible to finish the game,” replied

Chichikov, glancing out of the window. He could see his

britchka standing ready for him, and Selifan evidently

awaiting orders to draw up to the entrance steps. But

from the room there was no escape, since in the doorway

was posted the couple of well-built serving-men.

“Then it is as I say? You refuse to finish the game?”

repeated Nozdrev, his face as red as fire.

“I would have finished it had you played like a man of

honour. But, as it is, I cannot.”

“You cannot, eh, you villain? You find that you cannot

as soon as you find that you are not winning? Thrash him,

you fellows!” And as he spoke Nozdrev grasped the

cherrywood shank of his pipe. Chichikov turned as white

as a sheet. He tried to say something, but his quivering

lips emitted no sound. “Thrash him!” again shouted Nozdrev

as he rushed forward in a state of heat and perspiration

more proper to a warrior who is attacking an impregnable

fortress. “Thrash him!” again he shouted in a voice like

that of some half-demented lieutenant whose desperate

bravery has acquired such a reputation that orders have

had to be issued that his hands shall be held lest he

attempt deeds of over-presumptuous daring. Seized with

the military spirit, however, the lieutenant’s head begins

to whirl, and before his eye there flits the image of

Suvorov*. He advances to the great encounter, and im-

pulsively cries, “Forward, my sons!”—cries it without re-

flecting that he may be spoiling the plan of the general

attack, that millions of rifles may be protruding their

muzzles through the embrasures of the impregnable, tow-

ering walls of the fortress, that his own impotent assault

*The great Russian general who, after winning fame in theSeven Years’ War, met with disaster when attempting toassist the Austrians against the French in 1799.

104

Dead Soulsmay be destined to be dissipated like dust before the

wind, and that already there may have been launched on

its whistling career the bullet which is to close for ever

his vociferous throat. However, if Nozdrev resembled the

headstrong, desperate lieutenant whom we have just pic-

tured as advancing upon a fortress, at least the fortress

itself in no way resembled the impregnable stronghold

which I have described. As a matter of fact, the fortress

became seized with a panic which drove its spirit into its

boots. First of all, the chair with which Chichikov (the

fortress in question) sought to defend himself was wrested

from his grasp by the serfs, and then—blinking and nei-

ther alive nor dead—he turned to parry the Circassian

pipe-stem of his host. In fact, God only knows what would

have happened had not the fates been pleased by a miracle

to deliver Chichikov’s elegant back and shoulders from the

onslaught. Suddenly, and as unexpectedly as though the

sound had come from the clouds, there made itself heard

the tinkling notes of a collar-bell, and then the rumble of

wheels approaching the entrance steps, and, lastly, the

snorting and hard breathing of a team of horses as a ve-

hicle came to a standstill. Involuntarily all present glanced

through the window, and saw a man clad in a semi-mili-

tary greatcoat leap from a buggy. After making an inquiry

or two in the hall, he entered the dining-room just at the

juncture when Chichikov, almost swooning with terror, had

found himself placed in about as awkward a situation as

could well befall a mortal man.

“Kindly tell me which of you is Monsieur Nozdrev?” said

the unknown with a glance of perplexity both at the per-

son named (who was still standing with pipe-shank up-

raised) and at Chichikov (who was just beginning to re-

cover from his unpleasant predicament).

“Kindly tell me whom I have the honour of addressing?”

retorted Nozdrev as he approached the official.

“I am the Superintendent of Rural Police.”

“And what do you want?”

“I have come to fulfil a commission imposed upon me.

That is to say, I have come to place you under arrest until

your case shall have been decided.”

“Rubbish! What case, pray?”

“The case in which you involved yourself when, in a

105

Gogoldrunken condition, and through the instrumentality of a

walking-stick, you offered grave offence to the person of

Landowner Maksimov.”

“You lie! To your face I tell you that never in my life

have I set eyes upon Landowner Maksimov.”

“Good sir, allow me to represent to you that I am a

Government officer. Speeches like that you may address

to your servants, but not to me.”

At this point Chichikov, without waiting for Nozdrev’s

reply, seized his cap, slipped behind the Superintendent’s

back, rushed out on to the verandah, sprang into his

britchka, and ordered Selifan to drive like the wind.

CHAPTER V

Certainly Chichikov was a thorough coward, for, although

the britchka pursued its headlong course until Nozdrev’s

establishment had disappeared behind hillocks and

hedgerows, our hero continued to glance nervously be-

hind him, as though every moment expecting to see a

stern chase begin. His breath came with difficulty, and

when he tried his heart with his hands he could feel it

fluttering like a quail caught in a net.

“What a sweat the fellow has thrown me into!” he

thought to himself, while many a dire and forceful aspira-

tion passed through his mind. Indeed, the expressions to

which he gave vent were most inelegant in their nature.

But what was to be done next? He was a Russian and

thoroughly aroused. The affair had been no joke. “But for

the Superintendent,” he reflected, “I might never again

have looked upon God’s daylight—I might have vanished

like a bubble on a pool, and left neither trace nor poster-

ity nor property nor an honourable name for my future

offspring to inherit!” (it seemed that our hero was par-

106

Dead Soulsticularly anxious with regard to his possible issue).

“What a scurvy barin!” mused Selifan as he drove along.

“Never have I seen such a barin. I should like to spit in his

face. ’Tis better to allow a man nothing to eat than to

refuse to feed a horse properly. A horse needs his oats—

they are his proper fare. Even if you make a man procure a

meal at his own expense, don’t deny a horse his oats, for

he ought always to have them.”

An equally poor opinion of Nozdrev seemed to be cher-

ished also by the steeds, for not only were the bay and

the Assessor clearly out of spirits, but even the skewbald

was wearing a dejected air. True, at home the skewbald

got none but the poorer sorts of oats to eat, and Selifan

never filled his trough without having first called him a

villain; but at least they were oats, and not hay—they

were stuff which could be chewed with a certain amount

of relish. Also, there was the fact that at intervals he

could intrude his long nose into his companions’ troughs

(especially when Selifan happened to be absent from the

stable) and ascertain what Their provender was like. But

at Nozdrev’s there had been nothing but hay! That was

not right. All three horses felt greatly discontented.

But presently the malcontents had their reflections cut

short in a very rude and unexpected manner. That is to

say, they were brought back to practicalities by coming

into violent collision with a six-horsed vehicle, while upon

their heads descended both a babel of cries from the la-

dies inside and a storm of curses and abuse from the coach-

man. “Ah, you damned fool!” he vociferated. “I shouted

to you loud enough! Draw out, you old raven, and keep to

the right! Are you drunk?” Selifan himself felt conscious

that he had been careless, but since a Russian does not

care to admit a fault in the presence of strangers, he

retorted with dignity: “Why have you run into us? Did you

leave your eyes behind you at the last tavern that you

stopped at?” With that he started to back the britchka, in

the hope that it might get clear of the other’s harness;

but this would not do, for the pair were too hopelessly

intertwined. Meanwhile the skewbald snuffed curiously at

his new acquaintances as they stood planted on either

side of him; while the ladies in the vehicle regarded the

scene with an expression of terror. One of them was an old

107

Gogolwoman, and the other a damsel of about sixteen. A mass

of golden hair fell daintily from a small head, and the oval

of her comely face was as shapely as an egg, and white

with the transparent whiteness seen when the hands of a

housewife hold a new-laid egg to the light to let the sun’s

rays filter through its shell. The same tint marked the

maiden’s ears where they glowed in the sunshine, and, in

short, what with the tears in her wide-open, arresting

eyes, she presented so attractive a picture that our hero

bestowed upon it more than a passing glance before he

turned his attention to the hubbub which was being raised

among the horses and the coachmen.

“Back out, you rook of Nizhni Novgorod!” the strangers’

coachman shouted. Selifan tightened his reins, and the

other driver did the same. The horses stepped back a little,

and then came together again—this time getting a leg or

two over the traces. In fact, so pleased did the skewbald

seem with his new friends that he refused to stir from the

melee into which an unforeseen chance had plunged him.

Laying his muzzle lovingly upon the neck of one of his

recently-acquired acquaintances, he seemed to be whis-

pering something in that acquaintance’s ear—and whis-

pering pretty nonsense, too, to judge from the way in

which that confidant kept shaking his ears.

At length peasants from a village which happened to be

near the scene of the accident tackled the mess; and since

a spectacle of that kind is to the Russian muzhik what a

newspaper or a club-meeting is to the German, the ve-

hicles soon became the centre of a crowd, and the village

denuded even of its old women and children. The traces

were disentangled, and a few slaps on the nose forced the

skewbald to draw back a little; after which the teams were

straightened out and separated. Nevertheless, either sheer

obstinacy or vexation at being parted from their new friends

caused the strange team absolutely to refuse to move a

leg. Their driver laid the whip about them, but still they

stood as though rooted to the spot. At length the par-

ticipatory efforts of the peasants rose to an unprecedented

degree of enthusiasm, and they shouted in an intermit-

tent chorus the advice, “Do you, Andrusha, take the head

of the trace horse on the right, while Uncle Mitai mounts

the shaft horse. Get up, Uncle Mitai.” Upon that the lean,

108

Dead Soulslong, and red-bearded Uncle Mitai mounted the shaft horse;

in which position he looked like a village steeple or the

winder which is used to raise water from wells. The coach-

man whipped up his steeds afresh, but nothing came of

it, and Uncle Mitai had proved useless. “Hold on, hold

on!” shouted the peasants again. “Do you, Uncle Mitai,

mount the trace horse, while Uncle Minai mounts the shaft

horse.” Whereupon Uncle Minai—a peasant with a pair of

broad shoulders, a beard as black as charcoal, and a belly

like the huge samovar in which sbiten is brewed for all

attending a local market—hastened to seat himself upon

the shaft horse, which almost sank to the ground beneath

his weight. “Now they will go all right!” the muzhiks ex-

claimed. “Lay it on hot, lay it on hot! Give that sorrel

horse the whip, and make him squirm like a koramora*.”

Nevertheless, the affair in no way progressed; wherefore,

seeing that flogging was of no use, Uncles Mitai and Minai

both mounted the sorrel, while Andrusha seated himself

upon the trace horse. Then the coachman himself lost

patience, and sent the two Uncles about their business—

and not before it was time, seeing that the horses were

steaming in a way that made it clear that, unless they

were first winded, they would never reach the next

posthouse. So they were given a moment’s rest. That done,

they moved off of their own accord!

Throughout, Chichikov had been gazing at the young

unknown with great attention, and had even made one or

two attempts to enter into conversation with her: but

without success. Indeed, when the ladies departed, it was

as in a dream that he saw the girl’s comely presence, the

delicate features of her face, and the slender outline of

her form vanish from his sight; it was as in a dream that

once more he saw only the road, the britchka, the three

horses, Selifan, and the bare, empty fields. Everywhere in

life—yes, even in the plainest, the dingiest ranks of soci-

ety, as much as in those which are uniformly bright and

presentable—a man may happen upon some phenomenon

which is so entirely different from those which have hith-

erto fallen to his lot. Everywhere through the web of sor-

row of which our lives are woven there may suddenly break

a clear, radiant thread of joy; even as suddenly along the*A kind of large gnat.

109

Gogolstreet of some poor, poverty-stricken village which, ordi-

narily, sees nought but a farm waggon there may came

bowling a gorgeous coach with plated harness, pictur-

esque horses, and a glitter of glass, so that the peasants

stand gaping, and do not resume their caps until long

after the strange equipage has become lost to sight. Thus

the golden-haired maiden makes a sudden, unexpected

appearance in our story, and as suddenly, as unexpect-

edly, disappears. Indeed, had it not been that the person

concerned was Chichikov, and not some youth of twenty

summers—a hussar or a student or, in general, a man stand-

ing on the threshold of life—what thoughts would not

have sprung to birth, and stirred and spoken, within him;

for what a length of time would he not have stood en-

tranced as he stared into the distance and forgot alike his

journey, the business still to be done, the possibility of

incurring loss through lingering—himself, his vocation, the

world, and everything else that the world contains!

But in the present case the hero was a man of middle-

age, and of cautious and frigid temperament. True, he

pondered over the incident, but in more deliberate fash-

ion than a younger man would have done. That is to say,

his reflections were not so irresponsible and unsteady. “She

was a comely damsel,” he said to himself as he opened his

snuff-box and took a pinch. “But the important point is:

Is she also a nice damsel? One thing she has in her favour—

and that is that she appears only just to have left school,

and not to have had time to become womanly in the

worser sense. At present, therefore, she is like a child.

Everything in her is simple, and she says just what she

thinks, and laughs merely when she feels inclined. Such a

damsel might be made into anything—or she might be

turned into worthless rubbish. The latter, I surmise, for

trudging after her she will have a fond mother and a bevy

of aunts, and so forth—persons who, within a year, will

have filled her with womanishness to the point where her

own father wouldn’t know her. And to that there will be

added pride and affectation, and she will begin to observe

established rules, and to rack her brains as to how, and

how much, she ought to talk, and to whom, and where,

and so forth. Every moment will see her growing timorous

and confused lest she be saying too much. Finally, she

110

Dead Soulswill develop into a confirmed prevaricator, and end by

marrying the devil knows whom!” Chichikov paused awhile.

Then he went on: “Yet I should like to know who she is,

and who her father is, and whether he is a rich landowner

of good standing, or merely a respectable man who has

acquired a fortune in the service of the Government. Should

he allow her, on marriage, a dowry of, say, two hundred

thousand roubles, she will be a very nice catch indeed.

She might even, so to speak, make a man of good breed-

ing happy.”

Indeed, so attractively did the idea of the two hundred

thousand roubles begin to dance before his imagination

that he felt a twinge of self-reproach because, during the

hubbub, he had not inquired of the postillion or the coach-

man who the travellers might be. But soon the sight of

Sobakevitch’s country house dissipated his thoughts, and

forced him to return to his stock subject of reflection.

Sobakevitch’s country house and estate were of very fair

size, and on each side of the mansion were expanses of

birch and pine forest in two shades of green. The wooden

edifice itself had dark-grey walls and a red-gabled roof,

for it was a mansion of the kind which Russia builds for

her military settlers and for German colonists. A notice-

able circumstance was the fact that the taste of the ar-

chitect had differed from that of the proprietor—the former

having manifestly been a pedant and desirous of symme-

try, and the latter having wished only for comfort. Conse-

quently he (the proprietor) had dispensed with all win-

dows on one side of the mansion, and had caused to be

inserted, in their place, only a small aperture which, doubt-

less, was intended to light an otherwise dark lumber-room.

Likewise, the architect’s best efforts had failed to cause

the pediment to stand in the centre of the building, since

the proprietor had had one of its four original columns

removed. Evidently durability had been considered through-

out, for the courtyard was enclosed by a strong and very

high wooden fence, and both the stables, the coach-house,

and the culinary premises were partially constructed of

beams warranted to last for centuries. Nay, even the wooden

huts of the peasantry were wonderful in the solidity of

their construction, and not a clay wall or a carved pattern

or other device was to be seen. Everything fitted exactly

111

Gogolinto its right place, and even the draw-well of the man-

sion was fashioned of the oakwood usually thought suit-

able only for mills or ships. In short, wherever Chichikov’s

eye turned he saw nothing that was not free from shoddy

make and well and skilfully arranged. As he approached

the entrance steps he caught sight of two faces peering

from a window. One of them was that of a woman in a

mobcap with features as long and as narrow as a cucum-

ber, and the other that of a man with features as broad

and as short as the Moldavian pumpkins (known as

gorlianki) whereof balallaiki—the species of light, two-

stringed instrument which constitutes the pride and the

joy of the gay young fellow of twenty as he sits winking

and smiling at the white-necked, white-bosomed maidens

who have gathered to listen to his low-pitched tinkling—

are fashioned. This scrutiny made, both faces withdrew, and

there came out on to the entrance steps a lacquey clad in

a grey jacket and a stiff blue collar. This functionary con-

ducted Chichikov into the hall, where he was met by the

master of the house himself, who requested his guest to

enter, and then led him into the inner part of the mansion.

A covert glance at Sobakevitch showed our hero that

his host exactly resembled a moderate-sized bear. To com-

plete the resemblance, Sobakevitch’s long frockcoat and

baggy trousers were of the precise colour of a bear’s hide,

while, when shuffling across the floor, he made a criss-

cross motion of the legs, and had, in addition, a constant

habit of treading upon his companion’s toes. As for his

face, it was of the warm, ardent tint of a piatok*. Persons

of this kind—persons to whose designing nature has de-

voted not much thought, and in the fashioning of whose

frames she has used no instruments so delicate as a file or

a gimlet and so forth—are not uncommon. Such persons

she merely roughhews. One cut with a hatchet, and there

results a nose; another such cut with a hatchet, and there

materialises a pair of lips; two thrusts with a drill, and

there issues a pair of eyes. Lastly, scorning to plane down

the roughness, she sends out that person into the world,

saying: “There is another live creature.” Sobakevitch was

just such a ragged, curiously put together figure—though

the above model would seem to have been followed more

*A copper coin worth five kopecks.

112

Dead Soulsin his upper portion than in his lower. One result was that

he seldom turned his head to look at the person with

whom he was speaking, but, rather, directed his eyes to-

wards, say, the stove corner or the doorway. As host and

guest crossed the dining-room Chichikov directed a sec-

ond glance at his companion. “He is a bear, and nothing

but a bear,” he thought to himself. And, indeed, the strange

comparison was inevitable. Incidentally, Sobakevitch’s

Christian name and patronymic were Michael Semenovitch.

Of his habit of treading upon other people’s toes Chichikov

had become fully aware; wherefore he stepped cautiously,

and, throughout, allowed his host to take the lead. As a

matter of fact, Sobakevitch himself seemed conscious of

his failing, for at intervals he would inquire: “I hope I

have not hurt you?” and Chichikov, with a word of thanks,

would reply that as yet he had sustained no injury.

At length they reached the drawing-room, where

Sobakevitch pointed to an armchair, and invited his guest

to be seated. Chichikov gazed with interest at the walls

and the pictures. In every such picture there were por-

trayed either young men or Greek generals of the type of

Movrogordato (clad in a red uniform and breaches), Kanaris,

and others; and all these heroes were depicted with a

solidity of thigh and a wealth of moustache which made

the beholder simply shudder with awe. Among them there

were placed also, according to some unknown system,

and for some unknown reason, firstly, Bagration*—tall

and thin, and with a cluster of small flags and cannon

beneath him, and the whole set in the narrowest of

frames—and, secondly, the Greek heroine, Bobelina, whose

legs looked larger than do the whole bodies of the draw-

ing-room dandies of the present day. Apparently the mas-

ter of the house was himself a man of health and strength,

and therefore liked to have his apartments adorned with

none but folk of equal vigour and robustness. Lastly, in

the window, and suspected cheek by jowl with Bobelina,

there hung a cage whence at intervals there peered forth a

white-spotted blackbird. Like everything else in the apart-

ment, it bore a strong resemblance to Sobakevitch. When

host and guest had been conversing for two minutes or so

the door opened, and there entered the hostess—a tall

*A Russian general who fought against Napoleon, and wasmortally wounded at Borodino.

113

Gogollady in a cap adorned with ribands of domestic colouring

and manufacture. She entered deliberately, and held her

head as erect as a palm.

“This is my wife, Theodulia Ivanovna,” said Sobakevitch.

Chichikov approached and took her hand. The fact that she

raised it nearly to the level of his lips apprised him of the

circumstance that it had just been rinsed in cucumber oil.

“My dear, allow me to introduce Paul Ivanovitch

Chichikov,” added Sobakevitch. “He has the honour of being

acquainted both with our Governor and with our Post-

master.”

Upon this Theodulia Ivanovna requested her guest to be

seated, and accompanied the invitation with the kind of

bow usually employed only by actresses who are playing

the role of queens. Next, she took a seat upon the sofa,

drew around her her merino gown, and sat thereafter with-

out moving an eyelid or an eyebrow. As for Chichikov, he

glanced upwards, and once more caught sight of Kanaris

with his fat thighs and interminable moustache, and of

Bobelina and the blackbird. For fully five minutes all present

preserved a complete silence—the only sound audible being

that of the blackbird’s beak against the wooden floor of

the cage as the creature fished for grains of corn. Mean-

while Chichikov again surveyed the room, and saw that

everything in it was massive and clumsy in the highest

degree; as also that everything was curiously in keeping

with the master of the house. For example, in one corner

of the apartment there stood a hazelwood bureau with a

bulging body on four grotesque legs—the perfect image

of a bear. Also, the tables and the chairs were of the same

ponderous, unrestful order, and every single article in the

room appeared to be saying either, “I, too, am a

Sobakevitch,” or “I am exactly like Sobakevitch.”

“I heard speak of you one day when I was visiting the

President of the Council,” said Chichikov, on perceiving that

no one else had a mind to begin a conversation. “That was

on Thursday last. We had a very pleasant evening.”

“Yes, on that occasion I was not there,” replied

Sobakevitch.

“What a nice man he is!”

“Who is?” inquired Sobakevitch, gazing into the corner

by the stove.

114

Dead Souls“The President of the Local Council.”

“Did he seem so to you? True, he is a mason, but he is

also the greatest fool that the world ever saw.”

Chichikov started a little at this mordant criticism, but

soon pulled himself together again, and continued:

“Of course, every man has his weakness. Yet the Presi-

dent seems to be an excellent fellow.”

“And do you think the same of the Governor?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Because there exists no greater rogue than he.”

“What? The Governor a rogue?” ejaculated Chichikov, at

a loss to understand how the official in question could

come to be numbered with thieves. “Let me say that I

should never have guessed it. Permit me also to remark

that his conduct would hardly seem to bear out your opin-

ion—he seems so gentle a man.” And in proof of this

Chichikov cited the purses which the Governor knitted,

and also expatiated on the mildness of his features.

“He has the face of a robber,” said Sobakevitch. “Were

you to give him a knife, and to turn him loose on a turn-

pike, he would cut your throat for two kopecks. And the

same with the Vice-Governor. The pair are just Gog and

Magog.”

“Evidently he is not on good terms with them,” thought

Chichikov to himself. “I had better pass to the Chief of

Police, which whom he does seem to be friendly.” Accord-

ingly he added aloud: “For my own part, I should give the

preference to the Head of the Gendarmery. What a frank,

outspoken nature he has! And what an element of sim-

plicity does his expression contain!”

“He is mean to the core,” remarked Sobakevitch coldly.

“He will sell you and cheat you, and then dine at your

table. Yes, I know them all, and every one of them is a

swindler, and the town a nest of rascals engaged in rob-

bing one another. Not a man of the lot is there but would

sell Christ. Yet stay: one decent fellow there is—the Pub-

lic Prosecutor; though even HE, if the truth be told, is

little better than a pig.”

After these eulogia Chichikov saw that it would be use-

less to continue running through the list of officials—

more especially since suddenly he had remembered that

Sobakevitch was not at any time given to commending

115

Gogolhis fellow man.

“Let us go to luncheon, my dear,” put in Theodulia

Ivanovna to her spouse.

“Yes; pray come to table,” said Sobakevitch to his guest;

whereupon they consumed the customary glass of vodka

(accompanied by sundry snacks of salted cucumber and

other dainties) with which Russians, both in town and

country, preface a meal. Then they filed into the dining-

room in the wake of the hostess, who sailed on ahead like

a goose swimming across a pond. The small dining-table

was found to be laid for four persons—the fourth place

being occupied by a lady or a young girl (it would have

been difficult to say which exactly) who might have been

either a relative, the housekeeper, or a casual visitor. Cer-

tain persons in the world exist, not as personalities in

themselves, but as spots or specks on the personalities of

others. Always they are to be seen sitting in the same

place, and holding their heads at exactly the same angle,

so that one comes within an ace of mistaking them for

furniture, and thinks to oneself that never since the day

of their birth can they have spoken a single word.

“My dear,” said Sobakevitch, “the cabbage soup is ex-

cellent.” With that he finished his portion, and helped

himself to a generous measure of niania*—the dish which

follows shtchi and consists of a sheep’s stomach stuffed

with black porridge, brains, and other things. “What niania

this is!” he added to Chichikov. “Never would you get

such stuff in a town, where one is given the devil knows

what.”

“Nevertheless the Governor keeps a fair table,” said

Chichikov.

“Yes, but do you know what all the stuff is made of?”

retorted Sobakevitch. “If you did know you would never

touch it.”

“Of course I am not in a position to say how it is pre-

pared, but at least the pork cutlets and the boiled fish

seemed excellent.”

“Ah, it might have been thought so; yet I know the way

in which such things are bought in the market-place. They

are bought by some rascal of a cook whom a Frenchman has

taught how to skin a tomcat and then serve it up as hare.”

*Literally, “nursemaid.”

116

Dead Souls“Ugh! What horrible things you say!” put in Madame.

“Well, my dear, that is how things are done, and it is no

fault of mine that it is so. Moreover, everything that is

left over—everything that WE (pardon me for mentioning

it) cast into the slop-pail—is used by such folk for mak-

ing soup.”

“Always at table you begin talking like this!” objected

his helpmeet.

“And why not?” said Sobakevitch. “I tell you straight

that I would not eat such nastiness, even had I made it

myself. Sugar a frog as much as you like, but never shall it

pass MY lips. Nor would I swallow an oyster, for I know

only too well what an oyster may resemble. But have

some mutton, friend Chichikov. It is shoulder of mutton,

and very different stuff from the mutton which they cook

in noble kitchens—mutton which has been kicking about

the market-place four days or more. All that sort of cook-

ery has been invented by French and German doctors, and

I should like to hang them for having done so. They go

and prescribe diets and a hunger cure as though what

suits their flaccid German systems will agree with a Rus-

sian stomach! Such devices are no good at all.” Sobakevitch

shook his head wrathfully. “Fellows like those are for ever

talking of civilisation. As if that sort of thing was

civilisation! Phew!” (Perhaps the speaker’s concluding ex-

clamation would have been even stronger had he not been

seated at table.) “For myself, I will have none of it. When

I eat pork at a meal, give me the whole pig; when mut-

ton, the whole sheep; when goose, the whole of the bird.

Two dishes are better than a thousand, provided that one

can eat of them as much as one wants.”

And he proceeded to put precept into practice by tak-

ing half the shoulder of mutton on to his plate, and then

devouring it down to the last morsel of gristle and bone.

“My word!” reflected Chichikov. “The fellow has a pretty

good holding capacity!”

“None of it for me,” repeated Sobakevitch as he wiped

his hands on his napkin. “I don’t intend to be like a fellow

named Plushkin, who owns eight hundred souls, yet dines

worse than does my shepherd.”

“Who is Plushkin?” asked Chichikov.

“A miser,” replied Sobakevitch. “Such a miser as never

117

Gogolyou could imagine. Even convicts in prison live better

than he does. And he starves his servants as well.”

“Really?” ejaculated Chichikov, greatly interested.

“Should you, then, say that he has lost many peasants by

death?”

“Certainly. They keep dying like flies.”

“Then how far from here does he reside?”

“About five versts.”

“Only five versts?” exclaimed Chichikov, feeling his heart

beating joyously. “Ought one, when leaving your gates,

to turn to the right or to the left?”

“I should be sorry to tell you the way to the house of

such a cur,” said Sobakevitch. “A man had far better go to

hell than to Plushkin’s.”

“Quite so,” responded Chichikov. “My only reason for

asking you is that it interests me to become acquainted

with any and every sort of locality.”

To the shoulder of mutton there succeeded, in turn,

cutlets (each one larger than a plate), a turkey of about

the size of a calf, eggs, rice, pastry, and every conceivable

thing which could possibly be put into a stomach. There

the meal ended. When he rose from table Chichikov felt as

though a pood’s weight were inside him. In the drawing-

room the company found dessert awaiting them in the

shape of pears, plums, and apples; but since neither host

nor guest could tackle these particular dainties the host-

ess removed them to another room. Taking advantage of

her absence, Chichikov turned to Sobakevitch (who, prone

in an armchair, seemed, after his ponderous meal, to be

capable of doing little beyond belching and grunting—

each such grunt or belch necessitating a subsequent sign-

ing of the cross over the mouth), and intimated to him a

desire to have a little private conversation concerning a

certain matter. At this moment the hostess returned.

“Here is more dessert,” she said. “Pray have a few rad-

ishes stewed in honey.”

“Later, later,” replied Sobakevitch. “Do you go to your

room, and Paul Ivanovitch and I will take off our coats

and have a nap.”

Upon this the good lady expressed her readiness to send

for feather beds and cushions, but her husband expressed

a preference for slumbering in an armchair, and she there-

118

Dead Soulsfore departed. When she had gone Sobakevitch inclined

his head in an attitude of willingness to listen to Chichikov’s

business. Our hero began in a sort of detached manner—

touching lightly upon the subject of the Russian Empire,

and expatiating upon the immensity of the same, and

saying that even the Empire of Ancient Rome had been of

considerably smaller dimensions. Meanwhile Sobakevitch

sat with his head drooping.

From that Chichikov went on to remark that, according

to the statutes of the said Russian Empire (which yielded

to none in glory—so much so that foreigners marvelled at

it), peasants on the census lists who had ended their earthly

careers were nevertheless, on the rendering of new lists,

returned equally with the living, to the end that the courts

might be relieved of a multitude of trifling, useless emen-

dations which might complicate the already sufficiently

complex mechanism of the State. Nevertheless, said

Chichikov, the general equity of this measure did not ob-

viate a certain amount of annoyance to landowners, since

it forced them to pay upon a non-living article the tax

due upon a living. Hence (our hero concluded) he

(Chichikov) was prepared, owing to the personal respect

which he felt for Sobakevitch, to relieve him, in part, of

the irksome obligation referred to (in passing, it may be

said that Chichikov referred to his principal point only

guardedly, for he called the souls which he was seeking

not “dead,” but “non-existent”).

Meanwhile Sobakevitch listened with bent head; though

something like a trace of expression dawned in his face as

he did so. Ordinarily his body lacked a soul—or, if he did

posses a soul, he seemed to keep it elsewhere than where

it ought to have been; so that, buried beneath mountains

(as it were) or enclosed within a massive shell, its move-

ments produced no sort of agitation on the surface.

“Well?” said Chichikov—though not without a certain

tremor of diffidence as to the possible response.

“You are after dead souls?” were Sobakevitch’s perfectly

simple words. He spoke without the least surprise in his

tone, and much as though the conversation had been turn-

ing on grain.

“Yes,” replied Chichikov, and then, as before, softened

down the expression “dead souls.”

119

Gogol“They are to be found,” said Sobakevitch. “Why should

they not be?”

“Then of course you will be glad to get rid of any that

you may chance to have?”

“Yes, I shall have no objection to selling them.” At this

point the speaker raised his head a little, for it had struck

him that surely the would-be buyer must have some ad-

vantage in view.

“The devil!” thought Chichikov to himself. “Here is he

selling the goods before I have even had time to utter a

word!”

“And what about the price?” he added aloud. “Of course,

the articles are not of a kind very easy to appraise.”

“I should be sorry to ask too much,” said Sobakevitch.

“How would a hundred roubles per head suit you?”

“What, a hundred roubles per head?” Chichikov stared

open-mouthed at his host—doubting whether he had heard

aright, or whether his host’s slow-moving tongue might

not have inadvertently substituted one word for another.

“Yes. Is that too much for you?” said Sobakevitch. Then

he added: “What is your own price?”

“My own price? I think that we cannot properly have

understood one another—that you must have forgotten

of what the goods consist. With my hand on my heart do

I submit that eight grivni per soul would be a handsome,

a very handsome, offer.”

“What? Eight grivni?”

“In my opinion, a higher offer would be impossible.”

“But I am not a seller of boots.”

“No; yet you, for your part, will agree that these souls

are not live human beings?”

“I suppose you hope to find fools ready to sell you souls

on the census list for a couple of groats apiece?”

“Pardon me, but why do you use the term ‘on the cen-

sus list’? The souls themselves have long since passed away,

and have left behind them only their names. Not to trouble

you with any further discussion of the subject, I can offer

you a rouble and a half per head, but no more.”

“You should be ashamed even to mention such a sum! Since

you deal in articles of this kind, quote me a genuine price.”

“I cannot, Michael Semenovitch. Believe me, I cannot.

What a man cannot do, that he cannot do.” The speaker

120

Dead Soulsended by advancing another half-rouble per head.

“But why hang back with your money?” said Sobakevitch.

“Of a truth I am not asking much of you. Any other rascal

than myself would have cheated you by selling you old

rubbish instead of good, genuine souls, whereas I should

be ready to give you of my best, even were you buying

only nut-kernels. For instance, look at wheelwright Michiev.

Never was there such a one to build spring carts! And his

handiwork was not like your Moscow handiwork—good

only for an hour. No, he did it all himself, even down to

the varnishing.”

Chichikov opened his mouth to remark that, neverthe-

less, the said Michiev had long since departed this world;

but Sobakevitch’s eloquence had got too thoroughly into

its stride to admit of any interruption.

“And look, too, at Probka Stepan, the carpenter,” his

host went on. “I will wager my head that nowhere else

would you find such a workman. What a strong fellow he

was! He had served in the Guards, and the Lord only knows

what they had given for him, seeing that he was over

three arshins in height.”

Again Chichikov tried to remark that Probka was dead,

but Sobakevitch’s tongue was borne on the torrent of its

own verbiage, and the only thing to be done was to listen.

“And Milushkin, the bricklayer! He could build a stove

in any house you liked! And Maksim Teliatnikov, the

bootmaker! Anything that he drove his awl into became a

pair of boots—and boots for which you would be thank-

ful, although he WAS a bit foul of the mouth. And Eremi

Sorokoplechin, too! He was the best of the lot, and used

to work at his trade in Moscow, where he paid a tax of five

hundred roubles. Well, there’s an assortment of serfs for

you!—a very different assortment from what Plushkin

would sell you!”

“But permit me,” at length put in Chichikov, astounded

at this flood of eloquence to which there appeared to be

no end. “Permit me, I say, to inquire why you enumerate

the talents of the deceased, seeing that they are all of

them dead, and that therefore there can be no sense in

doing so. ‘A dead body is only good to prop a fence with,’

says the proverb.”

“Of course they are dead,” replied Sobakevitch, but rather

121

Gogolas though the idea had only just occurred to him, and was

giving him food for thought. “But tell me, now: what is

the use of listing them as still alive? And what is the use

of them themselves? They are flies, not human beings.”

“Well,” said Chichikov, “they exist, though only in idea.”

“But no—not only in idea. I tell you that nowhere else

would you find such a fellow for working heavy tools as

was Michiev. He had the strength of a horse in his shoul-

ders.” And, with the words, Sobakevitch turned, as though

for corroboration, to the portrait of Bagration, as is fre-

quently done by one of the parties in a dispute when he

purports to appeal to an extraneous individual who is not

only unknown to him, but wholly unconnected with the

subject in hand; with the result that the individual is left

in doubt whether to make a reply, or whether to betake

himself elsewhere.

“Nevertheless, I cannot give you more than two roubles

per head,” said Chichikov.

“Well, as I don’t want you to swear that I have asked

too much of you and won’t meet you halfway, suppose,

for friendship’s sake, that you pay me seventy-five roubles

in assignats?”

“Good heavens!” thought Chichikov to himself. “Does

the man take me for a fool?” Then he added aloud: “The

situation seems to me a strange one, for it is as though

we were performing a stage comedy. No other explanation

would meet the case. Yet you appear to be a man of

sense, and possessed of some education. The matter is a

very simple one. The question is: what is a dead soul

worth, and is it of any use to any one?”

“It is of use to you, or you would not be buying such

articles.”

Chichikov bit his lip, and stood at a loss for a retort. He

tried to saying something about “family and domestic

circumstances,” but Sobakevitch cut him short with:

“I don’t want to know your private affairs, for I never

poke my nose into such things. You need the souls, and I

am ready to sell them. Should you not buy them, I think

you will repent it.”

“Two roubles is my price,” repeated Chichikov.

“Come, come! As you have named that sum, I can un-

derstand your not liking to go back upon it; but quote me

122

Dead Soulsa bona fide figure.”

“The devil fly away with him!” mused Chichikov. “How-

ever, I will add another half-rouble.” And he did so.

“Indeed?” said Sobakevitch. “Well, my last word upon it

is—fifty roubles in assignats. That will mean a sheer loss

to me, for nowhere else in the world could you buy better

souls than mine.”

“The old skinflint!” muttered Chichikov. Then he added

aloud, with irritation in his tone: “See here. This is a

serious matter. Any one but you would be thankful to get

rid of the souls. Only a fool would stick to them, and

continue to pay the tax.”

“Yes, but remember (and I say it wholly in a friendly

way) that transactions of this kind are not generally al-

lowed, and that any one would say that a man who en-

gages in them must have some rather doubtful advantage

in view.”

“Have it your own away,” said Chichikov, with assumed

indifference. “As a matter of fact, I am not purchasing for

profit, as you suppose, but to humour a certain whim of

mine. Two and a half roubles is the most that I can offer.”

“Bless your heart!” retorted the host. “At least give me

thirty roubles in assignats, and take the lot.”

“No, for I see that you are unwilling to sell. I must say

good-day to you.”

“Hold on, hold on!” exclaimed Sobakevitch, retaining

his guest’s hand, and at the same moment treading heavily

upon his toes—so heavily, indeed, that Chichikov gasped

and danced with the pain.

“I beg your pardon!” said Sobakevitch hastily. “Evidently

I have hurt you. Pray sit down again.”

“No,” retorted Chichikov. “I am merely wasting my time,

and must be off.”

“Oh, sit down just for a moment. I have something

more agreeable to say.” And, drawing closer to his guest,

Sobakevitch whispered in his ear, as though communicat-

ing to him a secret: “How about twenty-five roubles?”

“No, no, no!” exclaimed Chichikov. “I won’t give you

even a quarter of that. I won’t advance another kopeck.”

For a while Sobakevitch remained silent, and Chichikov

did the same. This lasted for a couple of minutes, and,

meanwhile, the aquiline-nosed Bagration gazed from the

123

Gogolwall as though much interested in the bargaining.

“What is your outside price?” at length said Sobakevitch.

“Two and a half roubles.”

“Then you seem to rate a human soul at about the same

value as a boiled turnip. At least give me three roubles.”

“No, I cannot.”

“Pardon me, but you are an impossible man to deal

with. However, even though it will mean a dead loss to

me, and you have not shown a very nice spirit about it, I

cannot well refuse to please a friend. I suppose a pur-

chase deed had better be made out in order to have ev-

erything in order?”

“Of course.”

“Then for that purpose let us repair to the town.”

The affair ended in their deciding to do this on the

morrow, and to arrange for the signing of a deed of pur-

chase. Next, Chichikov requested a list of the peasants; to

which Sobakevitch readily agreed. Indeed, he went to his

writing-desk then and there, and started to indite a list

which gave not only the peasants’ names, but also their

late qualifications.

Meanwhile Chichikov, having nothing else to do, stood

looking at the spacious form of his host; and as he gazed

at his back as broad as that of a cart horse, and at the

legs as massive as the iron standards which adorn a street,

he could not help inwardly ejaculating:

“Truly God has endowed you with much! Though not

adjusted with nicety, at least you are strongly built. I

wonder whether you were born a bear or whether you have

come to it through your rustic life, with its tilling of

crops and its trading with peasants? Yet no; I believe

that, even if you had received a fashionable education,

and had mixed with society, and had lived in St. Peters-

burg, you would still have been just the kulak* that you

are. The only difference is that circumstances, as they

stand, permit of your polishing off a stuffed shoulder of

mutton at a meal; whereas in St. Petersburg you would

have been unable to do so. Also, as circumstances stand,

you have under you a number of peasants, whom you

treat well for the reason that they are your property;

whereas, otherwise, you would have had under you

*Village factor or usurer.

124

Dead Soulstchinovniks*: whom you would have bullied because they

were not your property. Also, you would have robbed the

Treasury, since a kulak always remains a money-grubber.”

“The list is ready,” said Sobakevitch, turning round.

“Indeed? Then please let me look at it.” Chichikov ran

his eye over the document, and could not but marvel at

its neatness and accuracy. Not only were there set forth in

it the trade, the age, and the pedigree of every serf, but

on the margin of the sheet were jotted remarks concern-

ing each serf’s conduct and sobriety. Truly it was a plea-

sure to look at it.

“And do you mind handing me the earnest money?” said

Sobakevitch?

“Yes, I do. Why need that be done? You can receive the

money in a lump sum as soon as we visit the town.”

“But it is always the custom, you know,” asserted

Sobakevitch.

“Then I cannot follow it, for I have no money with me.

However, here are ten roubles.”

“Ten roubles, indeed? You might as well hand me fifty

while you are about it.”

Once more Chichikov started to deny that he had any

money upon him, but Sobakevitch insisted so strongly

that this was not so that at length the guest pulled out

another fifteen roubles, and added them to the ten al-

ready produced.

“Kindly give me a receipt for the money,” he added.

“A receipt? Why should I give you a receipt?”

“Because it is better to do so, in order to guard against

mistakes.”

“Very well; but first hand me over the money.”

“The money? I have it here. Do you write out the re-

ceipt, and then the money shall be yours.”

“Pardon me, but how am I to write out the receipt

before I have seen the cash?”

Chichikov placed the notes in Sobakevitch’s hand; where-

upon the host moved nearer to the table, and added to

the list of serfs a note that he had received for the peas-

ants, therewith sold, the sum of twenty-five roubles, as

earnest money. This done, he counted the notes once more.

“This is a very old note,” he remarked, holding one up*Subordinate government officials.

125

Gogolto the light. “Also, it is a trifle torn. However, in a friendly

transaction one must not be too particular.”

“What a kulak!” thought Chichikov to himself. “And what

a brute beast!”

“Then you do not want any women souls?” queried

Sobakevitch.

“I thank you, no.”

“I could let you have some cheap—say, as between

friends, at a rouble a head?”

“No, I should have no use for them.”

“Then, that being so, there is no more to be said. There

is no accounting for tastes. ‘One man loves the priest, and

another the priest’s wife,’ says the proverb.”

Chichikov rose to take his leave. “Once more I would

request of you,” he said, “that the bargain be left as it is.”

“Of course, of course. What is done between friends

holds good because of their mutual friendship. Good-bye,

and thank you for your visit. In advance I would beg

that, whenever you should have an hour or two to spare,

you will come and lunch with us again. Perhaps we might

be able to do one another further service?”

“Not if I know it!” reflected Chichikov as he mounted

his britchka. “Not I, seeing that I have had two and a half

roubles per soul squeezed out of me by a brute of a kulak!”

Altogether he felt dissatisfied with Sobakevitch’s

behaviour. In spite of the man being a friend of the Gov-

ernor and the Chief of Police, he had acted like an outsider

in taking money for what was worthless rubbish. As the

britchka left the courtyard Chichikov glanced back and

saw Sobakevitch still standing on the verandah—appar-

ently for the purpose of watching to see which way the

guest’s carriage would turn.

“The old villain, to be still standing there!” muttered

Chichikov through his teeth; after which he ordered Selifan

to proceed so that the vehicle’s progress should be invis-

ible from the mansion—the truth being that he had a

mind next to visit Plushkin (whose serfs, to quote

Sobakevitch, had a habit of dying like flies), but not to

let his late host learn of his intention. Accordingly, on

reaching the further end of the village, he hailed the first

peasant whom he saw—a man who was in the act of hoist-

ing a ponderous beam on to his shoulder before setting

126

Dead Soulsoff with it, ant-like, to his hut.

“Hi!” shouted Chichikov. “How can I reach landowner

Plushkin’s place without first going past the mansion here?”

The peasant seemed nonplussed by the question.

“Don’t you know?” queried Chichikov.

“No, barin,” replied the peasant.

“What? You don’t know skinflint Plushkin who feeds his

people so badly?”

“Of course I do!” exclaimed the fellow, and added thereto

an uncomplimentary expression of a species not ordinarily

employed in polite society. We may guess that it was a

pretty apt expression, since long after the man had be-

come lost to view Chichikov was still laughing in his

britchka. And, indeed, the language of the Russian popu-

lace is always forcible in its phraseology.

CHAPTER VI

Chichikov’s amusement at the peasant’s outburst prevented

him from noticing that he had reached the centre of a

large and populous village; but, presently, a violent jolt

aroused him to the fact that he was driving over wooden

pavements of a kind compared with which the cobble-

stones of the town had been as nothing. Like the keys of

a piano, the planks kept rising and falling, and unguarded

passage over them entailed either a bump on the back of

the neck or a bruise on the forehead or a bite on the tip of

one’s tongue. At the same time Chichikov noticed a look

of decay about the buildings of the village. The beams of

the huts had grown dark with age, many of their roofs

were riddled with holes, others had but a tile of the roof

remaining, and yet others were reduced to the rib-like

framework of the same. It would seem as though the

inhabitants themselves had removed the laths and traverses,

on the very natural plea that the huts were no protection

against the rain, and therefore, since the latter entered in

bucketfuls, there was no particular object to be gained by

127

Gogolsitting in such huts when all the time there was the tav-

ern and the highroad and other places to resort to.

Suddenly a woman appeared from an outbuilding—ap-

parently the housekeeper of the mansion, but so roughly

and dirtily dressed as almost to seem indistinguishable

from a man. Chichikov inquired for the master of the place.

“He is not at home,” she replied, almost before her

interlocutor had had time to finish. Then she added: “What

do you want with him?”

“I have some business to do,” said Chichikov.

“Then pray walk into the house,” the woman advised.

Then she turned upon him a back that was smeared with

flour and had a long slit in the lower portion of its cover-

ing. Entering a large, dark hall which reeked like a tomb,

he passed into an equally dark parlour that was lighted

only by such rays as contrived to filter through a crack

under the door. When Chichikov opened the door in ques-

tion, the spectacle of the untidiness within struck him

almost with amazement. It would seem that the floor was

never washed, and that the room was used as a receptacle

for every conceivable kind of furniture. On a table stood a

ragged chair, with, beside it, a clock minus a pendulum

and covered all over with cobwebs. Against a wall leant a

cupboard, full of old silver, glassware, and china. On a

writing table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl which, in places,

had broken away and left behind it a number of yellow

grooves (stuffed with putty), lay a pile of finely written

manuscript, an overturned marble press (turning green),

an ancient book in a leather cover with red edges, a lemon

dried and shrunken to the dimensions of a hazelnut, the

broken arm of a chair, a tumbler containing the dregs of

some liquid and three flies (the whole covered over with a

sheet of notepaper), a pile of rags, two ink-encrusted

pens, and a yellow toothpick with which the master of the

house had picked his teeth (apparently) at least before

the coming of the French to Moscow. As for the walls,

they were hung with a medley of pictures. Among the

latter was a long engraving of a battle scene, wherein

soldiers in three-cornered hats were brandishing huge drums

and slender lances. It lacked a glass, and was set in a

frame ornamented with bronze fretwork and bronze cor-

ner rings. Beside it hung a huge, grimy oil painting repre-

128

Dead Soulssentative of some flowers and fruit, half a water melon, a

boar’s head, and the pendent form of a dead wild duck.

Attached to the ceiling there was a chandelier in a holland

covering—the covering so dusty as closely to resemble a

huge cocoon enclosing a caterpillar. Lastly, in one corner

of the room lay a pile of articles which had evidently been

adjudged unworthy of a place on the table. Yet what the

pile consisted of it would have been difficult to say, see-

ing that the dust on the same was so thick that any hand

which touched it would have at once resembled a glove.

Prominently protruding from the pile was the shaft of a

wooden spade and the antiquated sole of a shoe. Never

would one have supposed that a living creature had ten-

anted the room, were it not that the presence of such a

creature was betrayed by the spectacle of an old nightcap

resting on the table.

Whilst Chichikov was gazing at this extraordinary mess,

a side door opened and there entered the housekeeper

who had met him near the outbuildings. But now Chichikov

perceived this person to be a man rather than a woman,

since a female housekeeper would have had no beard to

shave, whereas the chin of the newcomer, with the lower

portion of his cheeks, strongly resembled the curry-comb

which is used for grooming horses. Chichikov assumed a

questioning air, and waited to hear what the housekeeper

might have to say. The housekeeper did the same. At length,

surprised at the misunderstanding, Chichikov decided to

ask the first question.

“Is the master at home?” he inquired.

“Yes,” replied the person addressed.

“Then were is he?” continued Chichikov.

“Are you blind, my good sir?” retorted the other. “I am

the master.”

Involuntarily our hero started and stared. During his

travels it had befallen him to meet various types of men—

some of them, it may be, types which you and I have

never encountered; but even to Chichikov this particular

species was new. In the old man’s face there was nothing

very special—it was much like the wizened face of many

another dotard, save that the chin was so greatly pro-

jected that whenever he spoke he was forced to wipe it

with a handkerchief to avoid dribbling, and that his small

129

Gogoleyes were not yet grown dull, but twinkled under their

overhanging brows like the eyes of mice when, with at-

tentive ears and sensitive whiskers, they snuff the air and

peer forth from their holes to see whether a cat or a boy

may not be in the vicinity. No, the most noticeable fea-

ture about the man was his clothes. In no way could it

have been guessed of what his coat was made, for both

its sleeves and its skirts were so ragged and filthy as to

defy description, while instead of two posterior tails, there

dangled four of those appendages, with, projecting from

them, a torn newspaper. Also, around his neck there was

wrapped something which might have been a stocking, a

garter, or a stomacher, but was certainly not a tie. In

short, had Chichikov chanced to encounter him at a church

door, he would have bestowed upon him a copper or two

(for, to do our hero justice, he had a sympathetic heart

and never refrained from presenting a beggar with alms),

but in the present case there was standing before him,

not a mendicant, but a landowner—and a landowner pos-

sessed of fully a thousand serfs, the superior of all his

neighbours in wealth of flour and grain, and the owner of

storehouses, and so forth, that were crammed with home-

spun cloth and linen, tanned and undressed sheepskins,

dried fish, and every conceivable species of produce. Nev-

ertheless, such a phenomenon is rare in Russia, where the

tendency is rather to prodigality than to parsimony.

For several minutes Plushkin stood mute, while Chichikov

remained so dazed with the appearance of the host and

everything else in the room, that he too, could not begin

a conversation, but stood wondering how best to find

words in which to explain the object of his visit. For a

while he thought of expressing himself to the effect that,

having heard so much of his host’s benevolence and other

rare qualities of spirit, he had considered it his duty to

come and pay a tribute of respect; but presently even he

came to the conclusion that this would be overdoing the

thing, and, after another glance round the room, decided

that the phrase “benevolence and other rare qualities of

spirit” might to advantage give place to “economy and

genius for method.” Accordingly, the speech mentally com-

posed, he said aloud that, having heard of Plushkin’s tal-

ents for thrifty and systematic management, he had con-

130

Dead Soulssidered himself bound to make the acquaintance of his

host, and to present him with his personal compliments

(I need hardly say that Chichikov could easily have al-

leged a better reason, had any better one happened, at

the moment, to have come into his head).

With toothless gums Plushkin murmured something in

reply, but nothing is known as to its precise terms beyond

that it included a statement that the devil was at liberty

to fly away with Chichikov’s sentiments. However, the laws

of Russian hospitality do not permit even of a miser in-

fringing their rules; wherefore Plushkin added to the fore-

going a more civil invitation to be seated.

“It is long since I last received a visitor,” he went on.

“Also, I feel bound to say that I can see little good in

their coming. Once introduce the abominable custom of

folk paying calls, and forthwith there will ensue such ruin

to the management of estates that landowners will be

forced to feed their horses on hay. Not for a long, long

time have I eaten a meal away from home—although my

own kitchen is a poor one, and has its chimney in such a

state that, were it to become overheated, it would in-

stantly catch fire.”

“What a brute!” thought Chichikov. “I am lucky to have

got through so much pastry and stuffed shoulder of mut-

ton at Sobakevitch’s!”

“Also,” went on Plushkin, “I am ashamed to say that

hardly a wisp of fodder does the place contain. But how

can I get fodder? My lands are small, and the peasantry

lazy fellows who hate work and think of nothing but the

tavern. In the end, therefore, I shall be forced to go and

spend my old age in roaming about the world.”

“But I have been told that you possess over a thousand

serfs?” said Chichikov.

“Who told you that? No matter who it was, you would

have been justified in giving him the lie. He must have

been a jester who wanted to make a fool of you. A thou-

sand souls, indeed! Why, just reckon the taxes on them,

and see what there would be left! For these three years that

accursed fever has been killing off my serfs wholesale.”

“Wholesale, you say?” echoed Chichikov, greatly interested.

“Yes, wholesale,” replied the old man.

“Then might I ask you the exact number?”

131

Gogol“Fully eighty.”

“Surely not?”

“But it is so.”

“Then might I also ask whether it is from the date of

the last census revision that you are reckoning these souls?”

“Yes, damn it! And since that date I have been bled for

taxes upon a hundred and twenty souls in all.”

“Indeed? Upon a hundred and twenty souls in all!” And

Chichikov’s surprise and elation were such that, this said,

he remained sitting open-mouthed.

“Yes, good sir,” replied Plushkin. “I am too old to tell

you lies, for I have passed my seventieth year.”

Somehow he seemed to have taken offence at Chichikov’s

almost joyous exclamation; wherefore the guest hastened

to heave a profound sigh, and to observe that he

sympathised to the full with his host’s misfortunes.

“But sympathy does not put anything into one’s pocket,”

retorted Plushkin. “For instance, I have a kinsman who is

constantly plaguing me. He is a captain in the army, damn

him, and all day he does nothing but call me ‘dear uncle,’

and kiss my hand, and express sympathy until I am forced

to stop my ears. You see, he has squandered all his money

upon his brother-officers, as well as made a fool of him-

self with an actress; so now he spends his time in telling

me that he has a sympathetic heart!”

Chichikov hastened to explain that his sympathy had

nothing in common with the captain’s, since he dealt,

not in empty words alone, but in actual deeds; in proof of

which he was ready then and there (for the purpose of

cutting the matter short, and of dispensing with circum-

locution) to transfer to himself the obligation of paying

the taxes due upon such serfs as Plushkin’s as had, in the

unfortunate manner just described, departed this world.

The proposal seemed to astonish Plushkin, for he sat star-

ing open-eyed. At length he inquired:

“My dear sir, have you seen military service?”

“No,” replied the other warily, “but I have been a mem-

ber of the Civil Service.”

“Oh! Of the Civil Service?” And Plushkin sat moving his

lips as though he were chewing something. “Well, what of

your proposal?” he added presently. “Are you prepared to

lose by it?”

132

Dead Souls“Yes, certainly, if thereby I can please you.”

“My dear sir! My good benefactor!” In his delight Plushkin

lost sight of the fact that his nose was caked with snuff of

the consistency of thick coffee, and that his coat had

parted in front and was disclosing some very unseemly

underclothing. “What comfort you have brought to an old

man! Yes, as God is my witness!”

For the moment he could say no more. Yet barely a

minute had elapsed before this instantaneously aroused

emotion had, as instantaneously, disappeared from his

wooden features. Once more they assumed a careworn

expression, and he even wiped his face with his handker-

chief, then rolled it into a ball, and rubbed it to and fro

against his upper lip.

“If it will not annoy you again to state the proposal,”

he went on, “what you undertake to do is to pay the

annual tax upon these souls, and to remit the money

either to me or to the Treasury?”

“Yes, that is how it shall be done. We will draw up a

deed of purchase as though the souls were still alive and

you had sold them to myself.”

“Quite so—a deed of purchase,” echoed Plushkin, once

more relapsing into thought and the chewing motion of

the lips. “But a deed of such a kind will entail certain

expenses, and lawyers are so devoid of conscience! In fact,

so extortionate is their avarice that they will charge one

half a rouble, and then a sack of flour, and then a whole

waggon-load of meal. I wonder that no one has yet called

attention to the system.”

Upon that Chichikov intimated that, out of respect for

his host, he himself would bear the cost of the transfer of

souls. This led Plushkin to conclude that his guest must

be the kind of unconscionable fool who, while pretending

to have been a member of the Civil Service, has in reality

served in the army and run after actresses; wherefore the

old man no longer disguised his delight, but called down

blessings alike upon Chichikov’s head and upon those of

his children (he had never even inquired whether Chichikov

possessed a family). Next, he shuffled to the window, and,

tapping one of its panes, shouted the name of “Proshka.”

Immediately some one ran quickly into the hall, and, af-

ter much stamping of feet, burst into the room. This was

133

GogolProshka—a thirteen-year-old youngster who was shod with

boots of such dimensions as almost to engulf his legs as

he walked. The reason why he had entered thus shod was

that Plushkin only kept one pair of boots for the whole of

his domestic staff. This universal pair was stationed in the

hall of the mansion, so that any servant who was sum-

moned to the house might don the said boots after wad-

ing barefooted through the mud of the courtyard, and

enter the parlour dry-shod—subsequently leaving the boots

where he had found them, and departing in his former

barefooted condition. Indeed, had any one, on a slushy

winter’s morning, glanced from a window into the said

courtyard, he would have seen Plushkin’s servitors per-

forming saltatory feats worthy of the most vigorous of

stage-dancers.

“Look at that boy’s face!” said Plushkin to Chichikov as

he pointed to Proshka. “It is stupid enough, yet, lay any-

thing aside, and in a trice he will have stolen it. Well, my

lad, what do you want?”

He paused a moment or two, but Proshka made no re-

ply.

“Come, come!” went on the old man. “Set out the samo-

var, and then give Mavra the key of the store-room—here

it is—and tell her to get out some loaf sugar for tea.

Here! Wait another moment, fool! Is the devil in your legs

that they itch so to be off? Listen to what more I have to

tell you. Tell Mavra that the sugar on the outside of the

loaf has gone bad, so that she must scrape it off with a

knife, and NOT throw away the scrapings, but give them

to the poultry. Also, see that you yourself don’t go into

the storeroom, or I will give you a birching that you

won’t care for. Your appetite is good enough already, but

a better one won’t hurt you. Don’t even try to go into the

storeroom, for I shall be watching you from this window.”

“You see,” the old man added to Chichikov, “one can

never trust these fellows.” Presently, when Proshka and

the boots had departed, he fell to gazing at his guest

with an equally distrustful air, since certain features in

Chichikov’s benevolence now struck him as a little open to

question, and he had begin to think to himself: “After all,

the devil only knows who he is—whether a braggart, like

most of these spendthrifts, or a fellow who is lying merely

134

Dead Soulsin order to get some tea out of me.” Finally, his circum-

spection, combined with a desire to test his guest, led

him to remark that it might be well to complete the

transaction immediately, since he had not overmuch con-

fidence in humanity, seeing that a man might be alive to-

day and dead to-morrow.

To this Chichikov assented readily enough—merely add-

ing that he should like first of all to be furnished with a

list of the dead souls. This reassured Plushkin as to his

guest’s intention of doing business, so he got out his

keys, approached a cupboard, and, having pulled back the

door, rummaged among the cups and glasses with which

it was filled. At length he said:

“I cannot find it now, but I used to possess a splendid

bottle of liquor. Probably the servants have drunk it all,

for they are such thieves. Oh no: perhaps this is it!”

Looking up, Chichikov saw that Plushkin had extracted

a decanter coated with dust.

“My late wife made the stuff,” went on the old man,

“but that rascal of a housekeeper went and threw away a

lot of it, and never even replaced the stopper. Conse-

quently bugs and other nasty creatures got into the de-

canter, but I cleaned it out, and now beg to offer you a

glassful.”

The idea of a drink from such a receptacle was too much

for Chichikov, so he excused himself on the ground that

he had just had luncheon.

“You have just had luncheon?” re-echoed Plushkin. “Now,

that shows how invariably one can tell a man of good

society, wheresoever one may be. A man of that kind never

eats anything—he always says that he has had enough.

Very different that from the ways of a rogue, whom one

can never satisfy, however much one may give him. For

instance, that captain of mine is constantly begging me

to let him have a meal—though he is about as much my

nephew as I am his grandfather. As it happens, there is

never a bite of anything in the house, so he has to go

away empty. But about the list of those good-for-nothing

souls—I happen to possess such a list, since I have drawn

one up in readiness for the next revision.”

With that Plushkin donned his spectacles, and once more

started to rummage in the cupboard, and to smother his

135

Gogolguest with dust as he untied successive packages of pa-

pers—so much so that his victim burst out sneezing. Fi-

nally he extracted a much-scribbled document in which

the names of the deceased peasants lay as close-packed

as a cloud of midges, for there were a hundred and twenty

of them in all. Chichikov grinned with joy at the sight of

the multitude. Stuffing the list into his pocket, he re-

marked that, to complete the transaction, it would be

necessary to return to the town.

“To the town?” repeated Plushkin. “But why? Moreover,

how could I leave the house, seeing that every one of my

servants is either a thief or a rogue? Day by day they pilfer

things, until soon I shall have not a single coat to hang

on my back.”

“Then you possess acquaintances in the town?”

“Acquaintances? No. Every acquaintance whom I ever

possessed has either left me or is dead. But stop a mo-

ment. I do know the President of the Council. Even in my

old age he has once or twice come to visit me, for he and

I used to be schoolfellows, and to go climbing walls to-

gether. Yes, him I do know. Shall I write him a letter?”

“By all means.”

“Yes, him I know well, for we were friends together at

school.”

Over Plushkin’s wooden features there had gleamed a

ray of warmth—a ray which expressed, if not feeling, at

all events feeling’s pale reflection. Just such a phenom-

enon may be witnessed when, for a brief moment, a drown-

ing man makes a last re-appearance on the surface of a

river, and there rises from the crowd lining the banks a cry

of hope that even yet the exhausted hands may clutch

the rope which has been thrown him—may clutch it be-

fore the surface of the unstable element shall have re-

sumed for ever its calm, dread vacuity. But the hope is

short-lived, and the hands disappear. Even so did Plushkin’s

face, after its momentary manifestation of feeling, be-

come meaner and more insensible than ever.

“There used to be a sheet of clean writing paper lying

on the table,” he went on. “But where it is now I cannot

think. That comes of my servants being such rascals.”

Whit that he fell to looking also under the table, as well

as to hurrying about with cries of “Mavra, Mavra!” At

136

Dead Soulslength the call was answered by a woman with a plateful

of the sugar of which mention has been made; whereupon

there ensued the following conversation.

“What have you done with my piece of writing paper,

you pilferer?”

“I swear that I have seen no paper except the bit with

which you covered the glass.”

“Your very face tells me that you have made off with

it.”

“Why should I make off with it? ’Twould be of no use to

me, for I can neither read nor write.”

“You lie! You have taken it away for the sexton to scribble

upon.”

“Well, if the sexton wanted paper he could get some for

himself. Neither he nor I have set eyes upon your piece.”

“Ah! Wait a bit, for on the Judgment Day you will be

roasted by devils on iron spits. Just see if you are not!”

“But why should I be roasted when I have never even

touched the paper? You might accuse me of any other

fault than theft.”

“Nay, devils shall roast you, sure enough. They will say

to you, ‘Bad woman, we are doing this because you robbed

your master,’ and then stoke up the fire still hotter.”

“Nevertheless _I_ shall continue to say, ‘You are roast-

ing me for nothing, for I never stole anything at all.’ Why,

there it is, lying on the table! You have been accusing me

for no reason whatever!”

And, sure enough, the sheet of paper was lying before

Plushkin’s very eyes. For a moment or two he chewed

silently. Then he went on:

“Well, and what are you making such a noise about? If

one says a single word to you, you answer back with ten.

Go and fetch me a candle to seal a letter with. And mind

you bring a tallow candle, for it will not cost so much as

the other sort. And bring me a match too.”

Mavra departed, and Plushkin, seating himself, and tak-

ing up a pen, sat turning the sheet of paper over and over,

as though in doubt whether to tear from it yet another

morsel. At length he came to the conclusion that it was

impossible to do so, and therefore, dipping the pen into

the mixture of mouldy fluid and dead flies which the ink

bottle contained, started to indite the letter in charac-

137

Gogolters as bold as the notes of a music score, while momen-

tarily checking the speed of his hand, lest it should mean-

der too much over the paper, and crawling from line to

line as though he regretted that there was so little vacant

space left on the sheet.

“And do you happen to know any one to whom a few

runaway serfs would be of use?” he asked as subsequently

he folded the letter.

“What? You have some runaways as well?” exclaimed

Chichikov, again greatly interested.

“Certainly I have. My son-in-law has laid the necessary

information against them, but says that their tracks have

grown cold. However, he is only a military man—that is

to say, good at clinking a pair of spurs, but of no use for

laying a plea before a court.”

“And how many runaways have you?”

“About seventy.”

“Surely not?”

“Alas, yes. Never does a year pass without a certain

number of them making off. Yet so gluttonous and idle

are my serfs that they are simply bursting with food,

whereas I scarcely get enough to eat. I will take any price

for them that you may care to offer. Tell your friends

about it, and, should they find even a score of the run-

aways, it will repay them handsomely, seeing that a living

serf on the census list is at present worth five hundred

roubles.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not going to let any one but

myself have a finger in this,” thought Chichikov to him-

self; after which he explained to Plushkin that a friend of

the kind mentioned would be impossible to discover, since

the legal expenses of the enterprise would lead to the said

friend having to cut the very tail from his coat before he

would get clear of the lawyers.

“Nevertheless,” added Chichikov, “seeing that you are

so hard pressed for money, and that I am so interested in

the matter, I feel moved to advance you—well, to ad-

vance you such a trifle as would scarcely be worth men-

tioning.”

“But how much is it?” asked Plushkin eagerly, and with

his hands trembling like quicksilver.

“Twenty-five kopecks per soul.”

138

Dead Souls“What? In ready money?”

“Yes—in money down.”

“Nevertheless, consider my poverty, dear friend, and make

it forty kopecks per soul.”

“Venerable sir, would that I could pay you not merely

forty kopecks, but five hundred roubles. I should be only

too delighted if that were possible, since I perceive that

you, an aged and respected gentleman, are suffering for

your own goodness of heart.”

“By God, that is true, that is true.” Plushkin hung his

head, and wagged it feebly from side to side. “Yes, all

that I have done I have done purely out of kindness.”

“See how instantaneously I have divined your nature!

By now it will have become clear to you why it is impos-

sible for me to pay you five hundred roubles per runaway

soul: for by now you will have gathered the fact that I am

not sufficiently rich. Nevertheless, I am ready to add an-

other five kopecks, and so to make it that each runaway

serf shall cost me, in all, thirty kopecks.”

“As you please, dear sir. Yet stretch another point, and

throw in another two kopecks.”

“Pardon me, but I cannot. How many runaway serfs did

you say that you possess? Seventy?”

“No; seventy-eight.”

“Seventy-eight souls at thirty kopecks each will amount

to—to—” only for a moment did our hero halt, since he

was strong in his arithmetic, “—will amount to twenty-

four roubles, ninety-six kopecks.”*

With that he requested Plushkin to make out the re-

ceipt, and then handed him the money. Plushkin took it

in both hands, bore it to a bureau with as much caution

as though he were carrying a liquid which might at any

moment splash him in the face, and, arrived at the bu-

reau, and glancing round once more, carefully packed the

cash in one of his money bags, where, doubtless, it was

destined to lie buried until, to the intense joy of his daugh-

ters and his son-in-law (and, perhaps, of the captain who

claimed kinship with him), he should himself receive burial

at the hands of Fathers Carp and Polycarp, the two priests

*Nevertheless Chichikov would appear to have erred, sincemost people would make the sum amount to twenty-threeroubles, forty kopecks. If so, Chichikov cheated himself ofone rouble, fifty-six kopecks.

139

Gogolattached to his village. Lastly, the money concealed,

Plushkin re-seated himself in the armchair, and seemed at

a loss for further material for conversation.

“Are you thinking of starting?” at length he inquired,

on seeing Chichikov making a trifling movement, though

the movement was only to extract from his pocket a hand-

kerchief. Nevertheless the question reminded Chichikov that

there was no further excuse for lingering.

“Yes, I must be going,” he said as he took his hat.

“Then what about the tea?”

“Thank you, I will have some on my next visit.”

“What? Even though I have just ordered the samovar to

be got ready? Well, well! I myself do not greatly care for

tea, for I think it an expensive beverage. Moreover, the

price of sugar has risen terribly.”

“Proshka!” he then shouted. “The samovar will not be

needed. Return the sugar to Mavra, and tell her to put it

back again. But no. Bring the sugar here, and I will put it

back.”

“Good-bye, dear sir,” finally he added to Chichikov. “May

the Lord bless you! Hand that letter to the President of

the Council, and let him read it. Yes, he is an old friend of

mine. We knew one another as schoolfellows.”

With that this strange phenomenon, this withered old

man, escorted his guest to the gates of the courtyard,

and, after the guest had departed, ordered the gates to

be closed, made the round of the outbuildings for the

purpose of ascertaining whether the numerous watchmen

were at their posts, peered into the kitchen (where, under

the pretence of seeing whether his servants were being

properly fed, he made a light meal of cabbage soup and

gruel), rated the said servants soundly for their thievish-

ness and general bad behaviour, and then returned to his

room. Meditating in solitude, he fell to thinking how best

he could contrive to recompense his guest for the latter’s

measureless benevolence. “I will present him,” he thought

to himself, “with a watch. It is a good silver article—not

one of those cheap metal affairs; and though it has suf-

fered some damage, he can easily get that put right. A

young man always needs to give a watch to his betrothed.”

“No,” he added after further thought. “I will leave him

the watch in my will, as a keepsake.”

140

Dead SoulsMeanwhile our hero was bowling along in high spirit.

Such an unexpected acquisition both of dead souls and of

runaway serfs had come as a windfall. Even before reach-

ing Plushkin’s village he had had a presentiment that he

would do successful business there, but not business of

such pre-eminent profitableness as had actually resulted.

As he proceeded he whistled, hummed with hand placed

trumpetwise to his mouth, and ended by bursting into a

burst of melody so striking that Selifan, after listening for

a while, nodded his head and exclaimed, “My word, but

the master can sing!”

By the time they reached the town darkness had fallen,

and changed the character of the scene. The britchka

bounded over the cobblestones, and at length turned into

the hostelry’s courtyard, where the travellers were met by

Petrushka. With one hand holding back the tails of his coat

(which he never liked to see fly apart), the valet assisted

his master to alight. The waiter ran out with candle in hand

and napkin on shoulder. Whether or not Petrushka was glad

to see the barin return it is impossible to say, but at all

events he exchanged a wink with Selifan, and his ordinarily

morose exterior seemed momentarily to brighten.

“Then you have been travelling far, sir?” said the waiter,

as he lit the way upstarts.

“Yes,” said Chichikov. “What has happened here in the

meanwhile?”

“Nothing, sir,” replied the waiter, bowing, “except that

last night there arrived a military lieutenant. He has got

room number sixteen.”

“A lieutenant?”

“Yes. He came from Riazan, driving three grey horses.”

On entering his room, Chichikov clapped his hand to his

nose, and asked his valet why he had never had the win-

dows opened.

“But I did have them opened,” replied Petrushka. Nev-

ertheless this was a lie, as Chichikov well knew, though he

was too tired to contest the point. After ordering and

consuming a light supper of sucking pig, he undressed,

plunged beneath the bedclothes, and sank into the pro-

found slumber which comes only to such fortunate folk as

are troubled neither with mosquitoes nor fleas nor exces-

sive activity of brain.

141

GogolCHAPTER VII

When Chichikov awoke he stretched himself and realised

that he had slept well. For a moment or two he lay on his

back, and then suddenly clapped his hands at the recol-

lection that he was now owner of nearly four hundred

souls. At once he leapt out of bed without so much as

glancing at his face in the mirror, though, as a rule, he

had much solicitude for his features, and especially for his

chin, of which he would make the most when in company

with friends, and more particularly should any one happen

to enter while he was engaged in the process of shaving.

“Look how round my chin is!” was his usual formula. On

the present occasion, however, he looked neither at chin

nor at any other feature, but at once donned his flower-

embroidered slippers of morroco leather (the kind of slip-

pers in which, thanks to the Russian love for a dressing-

gowned existence, the town of Torzhok does such a huge

trade), and, clad only in a meagre shirt, so far forgot his

elderliness and dignity as to cut a couple of capers after

the fashion of a Scottish highlander—alighting neatly,

each time, on the flat of his heels. Only when he had done

that did he proceed to business. Planting himself before

his dispatch-box, he rubbed his hands with a satisfaction

worthy of an incorruptible rural magistrate when adjourn-

ing for luncheon; after which he extracted from the re-

ceptacle a bundle of papers. These he had decided not to

deposit with a lawyer, for the reason that he would hasten

matters, as well as save expense, by himself framing and

fair-copying the necessary deeds of indenture; and since

he was thoroughly acquainted with the necessary termi-

nology, he proceeded to inscribe in large characters the

date, and then in smaller ones, his name and rank. By two

o’clock the whole was finished, and as he looked at the

sheets of names representing bygone peasants who had

ploughed, worked at handicrafts, cheated their masters,

fetched, carried, and got drunk (though SOME of them

may have behaved well), there came over him a strange,

unaccountable sensation. To his eye each list of names

seemed to possess a character of its own; and even indi-

vidual peasants therein seemed to have taken on certain

qualities peculiar to themselves. For instance, to the ma-

142

Dead Soulsjority of Madame Korobotchka’s serfs there were appended

nicknames and other additions; Plushkin’s list was distin-

guished by a conciseness of exposition which had led to

certain of the items being represented merely by Christian

name, patronymic, and a couple of dots; and Sobakevitch’s

list was remarkable for its amplitude and circumstantial-

ity, in that not a single peasant had such of his peculiar

characteristics omitted as that the deceased had been

“excellent at joinery,” or “sober and ready to pay atten-

tion to his work.” Also, in Sobakevitch’s list there was

recorded who had been the father and the mother of each

of the deceased, and how those parents had behaved them-

selves. Only against the name of a certain Thedotov was

there inscribed: “Father unknown, Mother the maidser-

vant Kapitolina, Morals and Honesty good.” These details

communicated to the document a certain air of freshness,

they seemed to connote that the peasants in question

had lived but yesterday. As Chichikov scanned the list he

felt softened in spirit, and said with a sigh:

“My friends, what a concourse of you is here! How did

you all pass your lives, my brethren? And how did you all

come to depart hence?”

As he spoke his eyes halted at one name in particular—

that of the same Peter Saveliev Neuvazhai Korito who had

once been the property of the window Korobotchka. Once

more he could not help exclaiming:

“What a series of titles! They occupy a whole line! Peter

Saveliev, I wonder whether you were an artisan or a plain

muzhik. Also, I wonder how you came to meet your end;

whether in a tavern, or whether through going to sleep in

the middle of the road and being run over by a train of

waggons. Again, I see the name, ‘Probka Stepan, carpen-

ter, very sober.’ That must be the hero of whom the Guards

would have been so glad to get hold. How well I can

imagine him tramping the country with an axe in his belt

and his boots on his shoulder, and living on a few groats’-

worth of bread and dried fish per day, and taking home a

couple of half-rouble pieces in his purse, and sewing the

notes into his breeches, or stuffing them into his boots!

In what manner came you by your end, Probka Stepan?

Did you, for good wages, mount a scaffold around the

cupola of the village church, and, climbing thence to the

143

Gogolcross above, miss your footing on a beam, and fall head-

long with none at hand but Uncle Michai—the good uncle

who, scratching the back of his neck, and muttering, ‘Ah,

Vania, for once you have been too clever!’ straightway

lashed himself to a rope, and took your place? ‘Maksim

Teliatnikov, shoemaker.’ A shoemaker, indeed? ‘As drunk as

a shoemaker,’ says the proverb. I know what you were like,

my friend. If you wish, I will tell you your whole history.

You were apprenticed to a German, who fed you and your

fellows at a common table, thrashed you with a strap,

kept you indoors whenever you had made a mistake, and

spoke of you in uncomplimentary terms to his wife and

friends. At length, when your apprenticeship was over,

you said to yourself, ‘I am going to set up on my own

account, and not just to scrape together a kopeck here

and a kopeck there, as the Germans do, but to grow rich

quick.’ Hence you took a shop at a high rent, bespoke a

few orders, and set to work to buy up some rotten leather

out of which you could make, on each pair of boots, a

double profit. But those boots split within a fortnight,

and brought down upon your head dire showers of male-

dictions; with the result that gradually your shop grew

empty of customers, and you fell to roaming the streets

and exclaiming, ‘The world is a very poor place indeed! A

Russian cannot make a living for German competition.’

Well, well! ‘Elizabeta Vorobei!’ But that is a woman’s name!

How comes she to be on the list? That villain Sobakevitch

must have sneaked her in without my knowing it.”

“‘Grigori Goiezhai-ne-Doiedesh,’” he went on. “What sort

of a man were you, I wonder? Were you a carrier who,

having set up a team of three horses and a tilt waggon,

left your home, your native hovel, for ever, and departed

to cart merchandise to market? Was it on the highway

that you surrendered your soul to God, or did your friends

first marry you to some fat, red-faced soldier’s daughter;

after which your harness and team of rough, but sturdy,

horses caught a highwayman’s fancy, and you, lying on

your pallet, thought things over until, willy-nilly, you felt

that you must get up and make for the tavern, thereafter

blundering into an icehole? Ah, our peasant of Russia!

Never do you welcome death when it comes!”

“And you, my friends?” continued Chichikov, turning to

144

Dead Soulsthe sheet whereon were inscribed the names of Plushkin’s

absconded serfs. “Although you are still alive, what is the

good of you? You are practically dead. Whither, I wonder,

have your fugitive feet carried you? Did you fare hardly at

Plushkin’s, or was it that your natural inclinations led you

to prefer roaming the wilds and plundering travellers? Are

you, by this time, in gaol, or have you taken service with

other masters for the tillage of their lands? ‘Eremei Kariakin,

Nikita Volokita and Anton Volokita (son of the forego-

ing).’ To judge from your surnames, you would seem to

have been born gadabouts*. ‘Popov, household serf.’ Prob-

ably you are an educated man, good Popov, and go in for

polite thieving, as distinguished from the more vulgar

cut-throat sort. In my mind’s eye I seem to see a Captain

of Rural Police challenging you for being without a pass-

port; whereupon you stake your all upon a single throw.

‘To whom do you belong?’ asks the Captain, probably add-

ing to his question a forcible expletive. ‘To such and such

a landowner,’ stoutly you reply. ‘And what are you doing

here?’ continues the Captain. ‘I have just received permis-

sion to go and earn my obrok,’ is your fluent explanation.

‘Then where is your passport?’ ‘At Miestchanin* Pimenov’s.’

‘Pimenov’s? Then are you Pimenov himself?’ ‘Yes, I am

Pimenov himself.’ ‘He has given you his passport?’ ‘No, he

has not given me his passport.’ ‘Come, come!’ shouts the

Captain with another forcible expletive. ‘You are lying!’

‘No, I am not,’ is your dogged reply. ‘It is only that last

night I could not return him his passport, because I came

home late; so I handed it to Antip Prochorov, the bell-

ringer, for him to take care of.’ ‘Bell-ringer, indeed! Then

he gave you a passport?’ ‘No; I did not receive a passport

from him either.’ ‘What?’—and here the Captain shouts

another expletive—’How dare you keep on lying? Where is

your own passport?’ ‘I had one all right,’ you reply cun-

ningly, ‘but must have dropped it somewhere on the road

as I came along.’ ‘And what about that soldier’s coat?’

asks the Captain with an impolite addition. ‘Whence did

you get it? And what of the priest’s cashbox and copper

money?’’ ‘About them I know nothing,’ you reply dog-

gedly. ‘Never at any time have I committed a theft.’ ‘Then

*The names Kariakin and Volokita might, perhaps, be trans-lated as “Gallant” and “Loafer.”

*Tradesman or citizen.

145

Gogolhow is it that the coat was found at your place?’ ‘I do not

know. Probably some one else put it there.’ ‘You rascal,

you rascal!’ shouts the Captain, shaking his head, and

closing in upon you. ‘Put the leg-irons upon him, and off

with him to prison!’ ‘With pleasure,’ you reply as, taking a

snuff-box from your pocket, you offer a pinch to each of

the two gendarmes who are manacling you, while also

inquiring how long they have been discharged from the

army, and in what wars they may have served. And in

prison you remain until your case comes on, when the

justice orders you to be removed from Tsarev-Kokshaika

to such and such another prison, and a second justice

orders you to be transferred thence to Vesiegonsk or some-

where else, and you go flitting from gaol to gaol, and

saying each time, as you eye your new habitation, ‘The

last place was a good deal cleaner than this one is, and

one could play babki* there, and stretch one’s legs, and

see a little society.’”

“‘Abakum Thirov,’” Chichikov went on after a pause. “What

of you, brother? Where, and in what capacity, are you

disporting yourself? Have you gone to the Volga country,

and become bitten with the life of freedom, and joined

the fishermen of the river?”

Here, breaking off, Chichikov relapsed into silent medi-

tation. Of what was he thinking as he sat there? Was he

thinking of the fortunes of Abakum Thirov, or was he

meditating as meditates every Russian when his thoughts

once turn to the joys of an emancipated existence?

“Ah, well!” he sighed, looking at his watch. “It has now

gone twelve o’clock. Why have I so forgotten myself? There

is still much to be done, yet I go shutting myself up and

letting my thoughts wander! What a fool I am!”

So saying, he exchanged his Scottish costume (of a shirt

and nothing else) for attire of a more European nature;

after which he pulled tight the waistcoat over his ample

stomach, sprinkled himself with eau-de-Cologne, tucked

his papers under his arm, took his fur cap, and set out for

the municipal offices, for the purpose of completing the

transfer of souls. The fact that he hurried along was not

due to a fear of being late (seeing that the President of

the Local Council was an intimate acquaintance of his, as*The game of knucklebones.

146

Dead Soulswell as a functionary who could shorten or prolong an

interview at will, even as Homer’s Zeus was able to shorten

or to prolong a night or a day, whenever it became neces-

sary to put an end to the fighting of his favourite heroes,

or to enable them to join battle), but rather to a feeling

that he would like to have the affair concluded as quickly

as possible, seeing that, throughout, it had been an anx-

ious and difficult business. Also, he could not get rid of

the idea that his souls were unsubstantial things, and

that therefore, under the circumstances, his shoulders had

better be relieved of their load with the least possible

delay. Pulling on his cinnamon-coloured, bear-lined over-

coat as he went, he had just stepped thoughtfully into

the street when he collided with a gentleman dressed in a

similar coat and an ear-lappeted fur cap. Upon that the

gentleman uttered an exclamation. Behold, it was Manilov!

At once the friends became folded in a strenuous em-

brace, and remained so locked for fully five minutes. In-

deed, the kisses exchanged were so vigorous that both

suffered from toothache for the greater portion of the

day. Also, Manilov’s delight was such that only his nose

and lips remained visible—the eyes completely disappeared.

Afterwards he spent about a quarter of an hour in holding

Chichikov’s hand and chafing it vigorously. Lastly, he, in the

most pleasant and exquisite terms possible, intimated to

his friend that he had just been on his way to embrace Paul

Ivanovitch; and upon this followed a compliment of the

kind which would more fittingly have been addressed to a

lady who was being asked to accord a partner the favour of

a dance. Chichikov had opened his mouth to reply—though

even he felt at a loss how to acknowledge what had just

been said—when Manilov cut him short by producing from

under his coat a roll of paper tied with red riband.

“What have you there?” asked Chichikov.

“The list of my souls.”

“Ah!” And as Chichikov unrolled the document and ran

his eye over it he could not but marvel at the elegant

neatness with which it had been inscribed.

“It is a beautiful piece of writing,” he said. “In fact, there

will be no need to make a copy of it. Also, it has a border

around its edge! Who worked that exquisite border?”

“Do not ask me,” said Manilov.

147

Gogol“Did you do it?”

“No; my wife.”

“Dear, dear!” Chichikov cried. “To think that I should

have put her to so much trouble!”

“Nothing could be too much trouble where Paul

Ivanovitch is concerned.

Chichikov bowed his acknowledgements. Next, on learn-

ing that he was on his way to the municipal offices for the

purpose of completing the transfer, Manilov expressed his

readiness to accompany him; wherefore the pair linked

arm in arm and proceeded together. Whenever they en-

countered a slight rise in the ground—even the smallest

unevenness or difference of level—Manilov supported

Chichikov with such energy as almost to lift him off his

feet, while accompanying the service with a smiling im-

plication that not if he could help it should Paul Ivanovitch

slip or fall. Nevertheless this conduct appeared to embar-

rass Chichikov, either because he could not find any fit-

ting words of gratitude or because he considered the pro-

ceeding tiresome; and it was with a sense of relief that he

debouched upon the square where the municipal offices—

a large, three-storied building of a chalky whiteness which

probably symbolised the purity of the souls engaged

within—were situated. No other building in the square

could vie with them in size, seeing that the remaining

edifices consisted only of a sentry-box, a shelter for two

or three cabmen, and a long hoarding—the latter adorned

with the usual bills, posters, and scrawls in chalk and

charcoal. At intervals, from the windows of the second

and third stories of the municipal offices, the incorrupt-

ible heads of certain of the attendant priests of Themis

would peer quickly forth, and as quickly disappear again—

probably for the reason that a superior official had just

entered the room. Meanwhile the two friends ascended

the staircase—nay, almost flew up it, since, longing to

get rid of Manilov’s ever-supporting arm, Chichikov has-

tened his steps, and Manilov kept darting forward to an-

ticipate any possible failure on the part of his companion’s

legs. Consequently the pair were breathless when they

reached the first corridor. In passing it may be remarked

that neither corridors nor rooms evinced any of that clean-

liness and purity which marked the exterior of the build-

148

Dead Soulsing, for such attributes were not troubled about within,

and anything that was dirty remained so, and donned no

meritricious, purely external, disguise. It was as though

Themis received her visitors in neglige and a dressing-

gown. The author would also give a description of the

various offices through which our hero passed, were it not

that he (the author) stands in awe of such legal haunts.

Approaching the first desk which he happened to en-

counter, Chichikov inquired of the two young officials who

were seated at it whether they would kindly tell him where

business relating to serf-indenture was transacted.

“Of what nature, precisely, is your business?” countered

one of the youthful officials as he turned himself round.

“I desire to make an application.”

“In connection with a purchase?”

“Yes. But, as I say, I should like first to know where I

can find the desk devoted to such business. Is it here or

elsewhere?”

“You must state what it is you have bought, and for

how much. Then we shall be happy to give you the infor-

mation.”

Chichikov perceived that the officials’ motive was merely

one of curiosity, as often happens when young tchinovniks

desire to cut a more important and imposing figure than

is rightfully theirs.

“Look here, young sirs,” he said. “I know for a fact that

all serf business, no matter to what value, is transacted at

one desk alone. Consequently I again request you to di-

rect me to that desk. Of course, if you do not know your

business I can easily ask some one else.”

To this the tchinovniks made no reply beyond pointing

towards a corner of the room where an elderly man ap-

peared to be engaged in sorting some papers. Accordingly

Chichikov and Manilov threaded their way in his direction

through the desks; whereupon the elderly man became

violently busy.

“Would you mind telling me,” said Chichikov, bowing,

“whether this is the desk for serf affairs?”

The elderly man raised his eyes, and said stiffly:

“This is not the desk for serf affairs.”

“Where is it, then?”

“In the Serf Department.”

149

Gogol“And where might the Serf Department be?”

“In charge of Ivan Antonovitch.”

“And where is Ivan Antonovitch?”

The elderly man pointed to another corner of the room;

whither Chichikov and Manilov next directed their steps.

As they advanced, Ivan Antonovitch cast an eye back-

wards and viewed them askance. Then, with renewed ardour,

he resumed his work of writing.

“Would you mind telling me,” said Chichikov, bowing,

“whether this is the desk for serf affairs?”

It appeared as though Ivan Antonovitch had not heard,

so completely did he bury himself in his papers and return

no reply. Instantly it became plain that he at least was of

an age of discretion, and not one of your jejune

chatterboxes and harum-scarums; for, although his hair

was still thick and black, he had long ago passed his for-

tieth year. His whole face tended towards the nose—it

was what, in common parlance, is known as a “pitcher-

mug.”

“Would you mind telling me,” repeated Chichikov,

“whether this is the desk for serf affairs?”

“It is that,” said Ivan Antonovitch, again lowering his

jug-shaped jowl, and resuming his writing.

“Then I should like to transact the following business.

From various landowners in this canton I have purchased

a number of peasants for transfer. Here is the purchase

list, and it needs but to be registered.”

“Have you also the vendors here?”

“Some of them, and from the rest I have obtained pow-

ers of attorney.”

“And have you your statement of application?”

“Yes. I desire—indeed, it is necessary for me so to do—

to hasten matters a little. Could the affair, therefore, be

carried through to-day?”

“To-day? Oh, dear no!” said Ivan Antonovitch. “Before

that can be done you must furnish me with further proofs

that no impediments exist.”

“Then, to expedite matters, let me say that Ivan

Grigorievitch, the President of the Council, is a very inti-

mate friend of mine.”

“Possibly,” said Ivan Antonovitch without enthusiasm.

“But Ivan Grigorievitch alone will not do—it is customary

150

Dead Soulsto have others as well.”

“Yes, but the absence of others will not altogether in-

validate the transaction. I too have been in the service,

and know how things can be done.”

“You had better go and see Ivan Grigorievitch,” said

Ivan Antonovitch more mildly. “Should he give you an

order addressed to whom it may concern, we shall soon

be able to settle the matter.”

Upon that Chichikov pulled from his pocket a paper, and

laid it before Ivan Antonovitch. At once the latter cov-

ered it with a book. Chichikov again attempted to show it

to him, but, with a movement of his head, Ivan

Antonovitch signified that that was unnecessary.

“A clerk,” he added, “will now conduct you to Ivan

Grigorievitch’s room.”

Upon that one of the toilers in the service of Themis—

a zealot who had offered her such heartfelt sacrifice that

his coat had burst at the elbows and lacked a lining—

escorted our friends (even as Virgil had once escorted

Dante) to the apartment of the Presence. In this sanctum

were some massive armchairs, a table laden with two or

three fat books, and a large looking-glass. Lastly, in (ap-

parently) sunlike isolation, there was seated at the table

the President. On arriving at the door of the apartment,

our modern Virgil seemed to have become so overwhelmed

with awe that, without daring even to intrude a foot, he

turned back, and, in so doing, once more exhibited a back

as shiny as a mat, and having adhering to it, in one spot,

a chicken’s feather. As soon as the two friends had en-

tered the hall of the Presence they perceived that the

President was not alone, but, on the contrary, had seated

by his side Sobakevitch, whose form had hitherto been

concealed by the intervening mirror. The newcomers’ en-

try evoked sundry exclamations and the pushing back of a

pair of Government chairs as the voluminous-sleeved

Sobakevitch rose into view from behind the looking-glass.

Chichikov the President received with an embrace, and for

a while the hall of the Presence resounded with osculatory

salutations as mutually the pair inquired after one another’s

health. It seemed that both had lately had a touch of

that pain under the waistband which comes of a seden-

tary life. Also, it seemed that the President had just been

151

Gogolconversing with Sobakevitch on the subject of sales of

souls, since he now proceeded to congratulate Chichikov

on the same—a proceeding which rather embarrassed our

hero, seeing that Manilov and Sobakevitch, two of the

vendors, and persons with whom he had bargained in the

strictest privacy, were now confronting one another di-

rect. However, Chichikov duly thanked the President, and

then, turning to Sobakevitch, inquired after his health.

“Thank God, I have nothing to complain of,” replied

Sobakevitch: which was true enough, seeing that a piece

of iron would have caught cold and taken to sneezing

sooner than would that uncouthly fashioned landowner.

“Ah, yes; you have always had good health, have you

not?” put in the President. “Your late father was equally

strong.”

“Yes, he even went out bear hunting alone,” replied

Sobakevitch.

“I should think that you too could worst a bear if you

were to try a tussle with him,” rejoined the President.

“Oh no,” said Sobakevitch. “My father was a stronger

man than I am.” Then with a sigh the speaker added:

“But nowadays there are no such men as he. What is even

a life like mine worth?”

“Then you do not have a comfortable time of it?” ex-

claimed the President.

“No; far from it,” rejoined Sobakevitch, shaking his head.

“Judge for yourself, Ivan Grigorievitch. I am fifty years

old, yet never in my life had been ill, except for an occa-

sional carbuncle or boil. That is not a good sign. Sooner

or later I shall have to pay for it.” And he relapsed into

melancholy.

“Just listen to the fellow!” was Chichikov’s and the

President’s joint inward comment. “What on earth has he

to complain of?”

“I have a letter for you, Ivan Grigorievitch,” went on

Chichikov aloud as he produced from his pocket Plushkin’s

epistle.

“From whom?” inquired the President. Having broken

the seal, he exclaimed: “Why, it is from Plushkin! To think

that he is still alive! What a strange world it is! He used to

be such a nice fellow, and now—”

“And now he is a cur,” concluded Sobakevitch, “as well

152

Dead Soulsas a miser who starves his serfs to death.”

“Allow me a moment,” said the President. Then he read

the letter through. When he had finished he added: “Yes,

I am quite ready to act as Plushkin’s attorney. When do

you wish the purchase deeds to be registered, Monsieur

Chichikov—now or later?”

“Now, if you please,” replied Chichikov. “Indeed, I beg

that, if possible, the affair may be concluded to-day, since

to-morrow I wish to leave the town. I have brought with

me both the forms of indenture and my statement of

application.”

“Very well. Nevertheless we cannot let you depart so

soon. The indentures shall be completed to-day, but you

must continue your sojourn in our midst. I will issue the

necessary orders at once.”

So saying, he opened the door into the general office,

where the clerks looked like a swarm of bees around a

honeycomb (if I may liken affairs of Government to such

an article?).

“Is Ivan Antonovitch here?” asked the President.

“Yes,” replied a voice from within.

“Then send him here.”

Upon that the pitcher-faced Ivan Antonovitch made his

appearance in the doorway, and bowed.

“Take these indentures, Ivan Antonovitch,” said the Presi-

dent, “and see that they—”

“But first I would ask you to remember,” put in

Sobakevitch, “that witnesses ought to be in attendance—

not less than two on behalf of either party. Let us, there-

fore, send for the Public Prosecutor, who has little to do,

and has even that little done for him by his chief clerk,

Zolotucha. The Inspector of the Medical Department is

also a man of leisure, and likely to be at home—if he has

not gone out to a card party. Others also there are—all

men who cumber the ground for nothing.”

“Quite so, quite so,” agreed the President, and at once

dispatched a clerk to fetch the persons named.

“Also,” requested Chichikov, “I should be glad if you

would send for the accredited representative of a certain

lady landowner with whom I have done business. He is the

son of a Father Cyril, and a clerk in your offices.”

“Certainly we shall call him here,” replied the President.

153

Gogol“Everything shall be done to meet your convenience, and

I forbid you to present any of our officials with a gratuity.

That is a special request on my part. No friend of mine

ever pays a copper.”

With that he gave Ivan Antonovitch the necessary in-

structions; and though they scarcely seemed to meet with

that functionary’s approval, upon the President the pur-

chase deeds had evidently produced an excellent impres-

sion, more especially since the moment when he had per-

ceived the sum total to amount to nearly a hundred thou-

sand roubles. For a moment or two he gazed into Chichikov’s

eyes with an expression of profound satisfaction. Then he

said:

“Well done, Paul Ivanovitch! You have indeed made a

nice haul!”

“That is so,” replied Chichikov.

“Excellent business! Yes, excellent business!”

“I, too, conceive that I could not well have done bet-

ter. The truth is that never until a man has driven home

the piles of his life’s structure upon a lasting bottom,

instead of upon the wayward chimeras of youth, will his

aims in life assume a definite end.” And, that said, Chichikov

went on to deliver himself of a very telling indictment of

Liberalism and our modern young men. Yet in his words

there seemed to lurk a certain lack of conviction. Some-

how he seemed secretly to be saying to himself, “My good

sir, you are talking the most absolute rubbish, and noth-

ing but rubbish.” Nor did he even throw a glance at

Sobakevitch and Manilov. It was as though he were uncer-

tain what he might not encounter in their expression. Yet

he need not have been afraid. Never once did Sobakevitch’s

face move a muscle, and, as for Manilov, he was too much

under the spell of Chichikov’s eloquence to do aught be-

yond nod his approval at intervals, and strike the kind of

attitude which is assumed by lovers of music when a lady

singer has, in rivalry of an accompanying violin, produced

a note whereof the shrillness would exceed even the ca-

pacity of a bird’s throstle.

“But why not tell Ivan Grigorievitch precisely what you

have bought?” inquired Sobakevitch of Chichikov. “And

why, Ivan Grigorievitch, do YOU not ask Monsieur Chichikov

precisely what his purchases have consisted of? What a

154

Dead Soulssplendid lot of serfs, to be sure! I myself have sold him

my wheelwright, Michiev.”

“What? You have sold him Michiev?” exclaimed the Presi-

dent. “I know the man well. He is a splendid craftsman,

and, on one occasion, made me a drozhki*. Only, only—

well, lately didn’t you tell me that he is dead?”

“That Michiev is dead?” re-echoed Sobakevitch, coming

perilously near to laughing. “Oh dear no! That was his

brother. Michiev himself is very much alive, and in even

better health than he used to be. Any day he could knock

you up a britchka such as you could not procure even in

Moscow. However, he is now bound to work for only one

master.”

“Indeed a splendid craftsman!” repeated the President.

“My only wonder is that you can have brought yourself to

part with him.”

“Then think you that Michiev is the only serf with whom I

have parted? Nay, for I have parted also with Probka Stepan,

my carpenter, with Milushkin, my bricklayer, and with

Teliatnikov, my bootmaker. Yes, the whole lot I have sold.”

And to the President’s inquiry why he had so acted,

seeing that the serfs named were all skilled workers and

indispensable to a household, Sobakevitch replied that a

mere whim had led him to do so, and thus the sale had

owed its origin to a piece of folly. Then he hung his head

as though already repenting of his rash act, and added:

“Although a man of grey hairs, I have not yet learned

wisdom.”

“But,” inquired the President further, “how comes it

about, Paul Ivanovitch, that you have purchased peas-

ants apart from land? Is it for transferment elsewhere

that you need them?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. That is quite another matter. To what

province of the country?”

“To the province of Kherson.”

“Indeed? That region contains some splendid land,” said

the President; whereupon he proceeded to expatiate on

the fertility of the Kherson pastures.

“And have you much land there?” he continued.

“Yes; quite sufficient to accommodate the serfs whom I*A sort of low, four-wheeled carriage.

155

Gogolhave purchased.”

“And is there a river on the estate or a lake?”

“Both.”

After this reply Chichikov involuntarily threw a glance

at Sobakevitch; and though that landowner’s face was as

motionless as every, the other seemed to detect in it:

“You liar! Don’t tell me that you own both a river and a

lake, as well as the land which you say you do.”

Whilst the foregoing conversation had been in progress,

various witnesses had been arriving on the scene. They

consisted of the constantly blinking Public Prosecutor,

the Inspector of the Medical Department, and others—

all, to quote Sobakevitch, “men who cumbered the ground

for nothing.” With some of them, however, Chichikov was

altogether unacquainted, since certain substitutes and

supernumeraries had to be pressed into the service from

among the ranks of the subordinate staff. There also ar-

rived, in answer to the summons, not only the son of

Father Cyril before mentioned, but also Father Cyril him-

self. Each such witness appended to his signature a full

list of his dignities and qualifications: one man in printed

characters, another in a flowing hand, a third in topsy-

turvy characters of a kind never before seen in the Russian

alphabet, and so forth. Meanwhile our friend Ivan

Antonovitch comported himself with not a little address;

and after the indentures had been signed, docketed, and

registered, Chichikov found himself called upon to pay

only the merest trifle in the way of Government percent-

age and fees for publishing the transaction in the Official

Gazette. The reason of this was that the President had

given orders that only half the usual charges were to be

exacted from the present purchaser—the remaining half

being somehow debited to the account of another appli-

cant for serf registration.

“And now,” said Ivan Grigorievitch when all was com-

pleted, “we need only to wet the bargain.”

“For that too I am ready,” said Chichikov. “Do you but

name the hour. If, in return for your most agreeable com-

pany, I were not to set a few champagne corks flying, I

should be indeed in default.”

“But we are not going to let you charge yourself with

anything whatsoever. We must provide the champagne,

156

Dead Soulsfor you are our guest, and it is for us—it is our duty, it is

our bounden obligation—to entertain you. Look here,

gentlemen. Let us adjourn to the house of the Chief of

Police. He is the magician who needs but to wink when

passing a fishmonger’s or a wine merchant’s. Not only

shall we fare well at his place, but also we shall get a

game of whist.”

To this proposal no one had any objection to offer, for

the mere mention of the fish shop aroused the witnesses’

appetite. Consequently, the ceremony being over, there

was a general reaching for hats and caps. As the party

were passing through the general office, Ivan Antonovitch

whispered in Chichikov’s ear, with a courteous inclination

of his jug-shaped physiognomy:

“You have given a hundred thousand roubles for the

serfs, but have paid me only a trifle for my trouble.”

“Yes,” replied Chichikov with a similar whisper, “but what

sort of serfs do you suppose them to be? They are a poor,

useless lot, and not worth even half the purchase money.”

This gave Ivan Antonovitch to understand that the visi-

tor was a man of strong character—a man from whom

nothing more was to be expected.

“Why have you gone and purchased souls from Plushkin?”

whispered Sobakevitch in Chichikov’s other ear.

“Why did you go and add the woman Vorobei to your

list?” retorted Chichikov.

“Vorobei? Who is Vorobei?”

“The woman ‘Elizabet’ Vorobei—’Elizabet,’ not

‘Elizabeta?’”

“I added no such name,” replied Sobakevitch, and

straightway joined the other guests.

At length the party arrived at the residence of the Chief

of Police. The latter proved indeed a man of spells, for no

sooner had he learnt what was afoot than he summoned a

brisk young constable, whispered in his ear, adding la-

conically, “You understand, do you not?” and brought it

about that, during the time that the guests were cutting

for partners at whist in an adjoining room, the dining-

table became laden with sturgeon, caviare, salmon, her-

rings, cheese, smoked tongue, fresh roe, and a potted

variety of the same—all procured from the local fish mar-

ket, and reinforced with additions from the host’s own

157

Gogolkitchen. The fact was that the worthy Chief of Police filled

the office of a sort of father and general benefactor to the

town, and that he moved among the citizens as though

they constituted part and parcel of his own family, and

watched over their shops and markets as though those es-

tablishments were merely his own private larder. Indeed, it

would be difficult to say—so thoroughly did he perform his

duties in this respect—whether the post most fitted him,

or he the post. Matters were also so arranged that though

his income more than doubled that of his predecessors, he

had never lost the affection of his fellow townsmen. In

particular did the tradesmen love him, since he was never

above standing godfather to their children or dining at

their tables. True, he had differences of opinion with them,

and serious differences at that; but always these were skil-

fully adjusted by his slapping the offended ones jovially on

the shoulder, drinking a glass of tea with them, promising

to call at their houses and play a game of chess, asking

after their belongings, and, should he learn that a child of

theirs was ill, prescribing the proper medicine. In short, he

bore the reputation of being a very good fellow.

On perceiving the feast to be ready, the host proposed

that his guests should finish their whist after luncheon;

whereupon all proceeded to the room whence for some

time past an agreeable odour had been tickling the nos-

trils of those present, and towards the door of which

Sobakevitch in particular had been glancing since the

moment when he had caught sight of a huge sturgeon

reposing on the sideboard. After a glassful of warm, olive-

coloured vodka apiece—vodka of the tint to be seen only

in the species of Siberian stone whereof seals are cut—the

company applied themselves to knife-and-fork work, and,

in so doing, evinced their several characteristics and tastes.

For instance, Sobakevitch, disdaining lesser trifles, tack-

led the large sturgeon, and, during the time that his fel-

low guests were eating minor comestibles, and drinking

and talking, contrived to consume more than a quarter of

the whole fish; so that, on the host remembering the

creature, and, with fork in hand, leading the way in its

direction and saying, “What, gentlemen, think you of this

striking product of nature?” there ensued the discovery

that of the said product of nature there remained little

158

Dead Soulsbeyond the tail, while Sobakevitch, with an air as though

at least HE had not eaten it, was engaged in plunging his

fork into a much more diminutive piece of fish which

happened to be resting on an adjacent platter. After his

divorce from the sturgeon, Sobakevitch ate and drank no

more, but sat frowning and blinking in an armchair.

Apparently the host was not a man who believed in

sparing the wine, for the toasts drunk were innumerable.

The first toast (as the reader may guess) was quaffed to

the health of the new landowner of Kherson; the second

to the prosperity of his peasants and their safe

transferment; and the third to the beauty of his future

wife—a compliment which brought to our hero’s lips a

flickering smile. Lastly, he received from the company a

pressing, as well as an unanimous, invitation to extend

his stay in town for at least another fortnight, and, in the

meanwhile, to allow a wife to be found for him.

“Quite so,” agreed the President. “Fight us tooth and

nail though you may, we intend to have you married. You

have happened upon us by chance, and you shall have no

reason to repent of it. We are in earnest on this subject.”

“But why should I fight you tooth and nail?” said

Chichikov, smiling. “Marriage would not come amiss to

me, were I but provided with a betrothed.”

“Then a betrothed you shall have. Why not? We will do

as you wish.”

“Very well,” assented Chichikov.

“Bravo, bravo!” the company shouted. “Long live Paul

Ivanovitch! Hurrah! Hurrah!” And with that every one ap-

proached to clink glasses with him, and he readily ac-

cepted the compliment, and accepted it many times in

succession. Indeed, as the hours passed on, the hilarity of

the company increased yet further, and more than once

the President (a man of great urbanity when thoroughly

in his cups) embraced the chief guest of the day with the

heartfelt words, “My dearest fellow! My own most pre-

cious of friends!” Nay, he even started to crack his fin-

gers, to dance around Chichikov’s chair, and to sing snatches

of a popular song. To the champagne succeeded Hungar-

ian wine, which had the effect of still further heartening

and enlivening the company. By this time every one had

forgotten about whist, and given himself up to shouting

159

Gogoland disputing. Every conceivable subject was discussed,

including politics and military affairs; and in this connec-

tion guests voiced jejune opinions for the expression of

which they would, at any other time, have soundly spanked

their offspring. Chichikov, like the rest, had never before

felt so gay, and, imagining himself really and truly to be a

landowner of Kherson, spoke of various improvements in

agriculture, of the three-field system of tillage*, and of

the beatific felicity of a union between two kindred souls.

Also, he started to recite poetry to Sobakevitch, who

blinked as he listened, for he greatly desired to go to

sleep. At length the guest of the evening realised that

matters had gone far enough, so begged to be given a lift

home, and was accommodated with the Public Prosecutor’s

drozhki. Luckily the driver of the vehicle was a practised

man at his work, for, while driving with one hand, he

succeeded in leaning backwards and, with the other, holding

Chichikov securely in his place. Arrived at the inn, our

hero continued babbling awhile about a flaxen-haired dam-

sel with rosy lips and a dimple in her right cheek, about

villages of his in Kherson, and about the amount of his

capital. Nay, he even issued seignorial instructions that

Selifan should go and muster the peasants about to be

transferred, and make a complete and detailed inventory

of them. For a while Selifan listened in silence; then he

left the room, and instructed Petrushka to help the barin

to undress. As it happened, Chichikov’s boots had no sooner

been removed than he managed to perform the rest of his

toilet without assistance, to roll on to the bed (which

creaked terribly as he did so), and to sink into a sleep in

every way worthy of a landowner of Kherson. Meanwhile

Petrushka had taken his master’s coat and trousers of bil-

berry-coloured check into the corridor; where, spreading

them over a clothes’ horse, he started to flick and to

brush them, and to fill the whole corridor with dust. Just

as he was about to replace them in his master’s room he

happened to glance over the railing of the gallery, and

saw Selifan returning from the stable. Glances were ex-

changed, and in an instant the pair had arrived at an

instinctive understanding—an understanding to the ef-*The system by which, in annual rotation, two-thirds of agiven area are cultivated, while the remaining third is leftfallow.

160

Dead Soulsfect that the barin was sound asleep, and that therefore

one might consider one’s own pleasure a little. Accord-

ingly Petrushka proceeded to restore the coat and trou-

sers to their appointed places, and then descended the

stairs; whereafter he and Selifan left the house together.

Not a word passed between them as to the object of their

expedition. On the contrary, they talked solely of extrane-

ous subjects. Yet their walk did not take them far; it took

them only to the other side of the street, and thence into

an establishment which immediately confronted the inn.

Entering a mean, dirty courtyard covered with glass, they

passed thence into a cellar where a number of customers

were seated around small wooden tables. What thereafter

was done by Selifan and Petrushka God alone knows. At all

events, within an hour’s time they issued, arm in arm, and

in profound silence, yet remaining markedly assiduous to

one another, and ever ready to help one another around

an awkward corner. Still linked together—never once re-

leasing their mutual hold—they spent the next quarter of

an hour in attempting to negotiate the stairs of the inn;

but at length even that ascent had been mastered, and

they proceeded further on their way. Halting before his

mean little pallet, Petrushka stood awhile in thought. His

difficulty was how best to assume a recumbent position.

Eventually he lay down on his face, with his legs trailing

over the floor; after which Selifan also stretched himself

upon the pallet, with his head resting upon Petrushka’s

stomach, and his mind wholly oblivious of the fact that

he ought not to have been sleeping there at all, but in the

servant’s quarters, or in the stable beside his horses.

Scarcely a moment had passed before the pair were plunged

in slumber and emitting the most raucous snores; to which

their master (next door) responded with snores of a whis-

tling and nasal order. Indeed, before long every one in the

inn had followed their soothing example, and the hostelry

lay plunged in complete restfulness. Only in the window

of the room of the newly-arrived lieutenant from Riazan

did a light remain burning. Evidently he was a devotee of

boots, for he had purchased four pairs, and was now try-

ing on a fifth. Several times he approached the bed with a

view to taking off the boots and retiring to rest; but each

time he failed, for the reason that the boots were so allur-

161

Gogoling in their make that he had no choice but to lift up first

one foot, and then the other, for the purpose of scanning

their elegant welts.

CHAPTER VIII

It was not long before Chichikov’s purchases had become

the talk of the town; and various were the opinions ex-

pressed as to whether or not it was expedient to procure

peasants for transferment. Indeed such was the interest

taken by certain citizens in the matter that they advised

the purchaser to provide himself and his convoy with an

escort, in order to ensure their safe arrival at the ap-

pointed destination; but though Chichikov thanked the

donors of this advice for the same, and declared that he

should be very glad, in case of need, to avail himself of it,

he declared also that there was no real need for an escort,

seeing that the peasants whom he had purchased were

exceptionally peace-loving folk, and that, being them-

selves consenting parties to the transferment, they would

undoubtedly prove in every way tractable.

One particularly good result of this advertisement of his

scheme was that he came to rank as neither more nor less

than a millionaire. Consequently, much as the inhabitants

had liked our hero in the first instance (as seen in Chapter

162

Dead SoulsI.), they now liked him more than ever. As a matter of

fact, they were citizens of an exceptionally quiet, good-

natured, easy-going disposition; and some of them were

even well-educated. For instance, the President of the Local

Council could recite the whole of Zhukovski’s Ludmilla by

heart, and give such an impressive rendering of the pas-

sage “The pine forest was asleep and the valley at rest”

(as well as of the exclamation “Phew!”) that one felt, as

he did so, that the pine forest and the valley really were

as he described them. The effect was also further height-

ened by the manner in which, at such moments, he as-

sumed the most portentous frown. For his part, the Post-

master went in more for philosophy, and diligently pe-

rused such works as Young’s Night Thoughts, and

Eckharthausen’s A Key to the Mysteries of Nature; of which

latter work he would make copious extracts, though no

one had the slightest notion what they referred to. For

the rest, he was a witty, florid little individual, and much

addicted to a practice of what he called “embellishing”

whatsoever he had to say—a feat which he performed

with the aid of such by-the-way phrases as “my dear sir,”

“my good So-and-So,” “you know,” “you understand,”

“you may imagine,” “relatively speaking,” “for instance,”

and “et cetera”; of which phrases he would add sackfuls

to his speech. He could also “embellish” his words by the

simple expedient of half-closing, half-winking one eye;

which trick communicated to some of his satirical utter-

ances quite a mordant effect. Nor were his colleagues a

wit inferior to him in enlightenment. For instance, one of

them made a regular practice of reading Karamzin, an-

other of conning the Moscow Gazette, and a third of never

looking at a book at all. Likewise, although they were the

sort of men to whom, in their more intimate movements,

their wives would very naturally address such nicknames

as “Toby Jug,” “Marmot,” “Fatty,” “Pot Belly,” “Smutty,”

“Kiki,” and “Buzz-Buzz,” they were men also of good

heart, and very ready to extend their hospitality and their

friendship when once a guest had eaten of their bread and

salt, or spent an evening in their company. Particularly,

therefore, did Chichikov earn these good folk’s approval

with his taking methods and qualities—so much so that

the expression of that approval bid fair to make it diffi-

163

Gogolcult for him to quit the town, seeing that, wherever he

went, the one phrase dinned into his ears was “Stay an-

other week with us, Paul Ivanovitch.” In short, he ceased

to be a free agent. But incomparably more striking was

the impression (a matter for unbounded surprise!) which

he produced upon the ladies. Properly to explain this phe-

nomenon I should need to say a great deal about the

ladies themselves, and to describe in the most vivid of

colours their social intercourse and spiritual qualities. Yet

this would be a difficult thing for me to do, since, on the

one hand, I should be hampered by my boundless respect

for the womenfolk of all Civil Service officials, and, on the

other hand—well, simply by the innate arduousness of

the task. The ladies of N. were—But no, I cannot do it;

my heart has already failed me. Come, come! The ladies of

N. were distinguished for—But it is of no use; somehow

my pen seems to refuse to move over the paper—it seems

to be weighted as with a plummet of lead. Very well. That

being so, I will merely say a word or two concerning the

most prominent tints on the feminine palette of N.—

merely a word or two concerning the outward appearance

of its ladies, and a word or two concerning their more

superficial characteristics. The ladies of N. were pre-emi-

nently what is known as “presentable.” Indeed, in that

respect they might have served as a model to the ladies of

many another town. That is to say, in whatever pertained

to “tone,” etiquette, the intricacies of decorum, and strict

observance of the prevailing mode, they surpassed even

the ladies of Moscow and St. Petersburg, seeing that they

dressed with taste, drove about in carriages in the latest

fashions, and never went out without the escort of a foot-

man in gold-laced livery. Again, they looked upon a visit-

ing card—even upon a make-shift affair consisting of an

ace of diamonds or a two of clubs—as a sacred thing; so

sacred that on one occasion two closely related ladies

who had also been closely attached friends were known to

fall out with one another over the mere fact of an omis-

sion to return a social call! Yes, in spite of the best efforts

of husbands and kinsfolk to reconcile the antagonists, it

became clear that, though all else in the world might

conceivably be possible, never could the hatchet be bur-

ied between ladies who had quarrelled over a neglected

164

Dead Soulsvisit. Likewise strenuous scenes used to take place over

questions of precedence—scenes of a kind which had the

effect of inspiring husbands to great and knightly ideas

on the subject of protecting the fair. True, never did a

duel actually take place, since all the husbands were offi-

cials belonging to the Civil Service; but at least a given

combatant would strive to heap contumely upon his rival,

and, as we all know, that is a resource which may prove

even more effectual than a duel. As regards morality, the

ladies of N. were nothing if not censorious, and would at

once be fired with virtuous indignation when they heard

of a case of vice or seduction. Nay, even to mere frailty

they would award the lash without mercy. On the other

hand, should any instance of what they called “third

personism” occur among their own circle, it was always

kept dark—not a hint of what was going on being allowed

to transpire, and even the wronged husband holding him-

self ready, should he meet with, or hear of, the “third

person,” to quote, in a mild and rational manner, the

proverb, “Whom concerns it that a friend should consort

with friend?” In addition, I may say that, like most of the

female world of St. Petersburg, the ladies of N. were pre-

eminently careful and refined in their choice of words and

phrases. Never did a lady say, “I blew my nose,” or “I

perspired,” or “I spat.” No, it had to be, “I relieved my

nose through the expedient of wiping it with my handker-

chief,” and so forth. Again, to say, “This glass, or this

plate, smells badly,” was forbidden. No, not even a hint

to such an effect was to be dropped. Rather, the proper

phrase, in such a case, was “This glass, or this plate, is

not behaving very well,”—or some such formula.

In fact, to refine the Russian tongue the more thoroughly,

something like half the words in it were cut out: which

circumstance necessitated very frequent recourse to the

tongue of France, since the same words, if spoken in French,

were another matter altogether, and one could use even

blunter ones than the ones originally objected to.

So much for the ladies of N., provided that one confines

one’s observations to the surface; yet hardly need it be

said that, should one penetrate deeper than that, a great

deal more would come to light. At the same time, it is

never a very safe proceeding to peer deeply into the hearts

165

Gogolof ladies; wherefore, restricting ourselves to the foregoing

superficialities, let us proceed further on our way.

Hitherto the ladies had paid Chichikov no particular at-

tention, though giving him full credit for his gentlemanly

and urbane demeanour; but from the moment that there

arose rumours of his being a millionaire other qualities of

his began to be canvassed. Nevertheless, not all the ladies

were governed by interested motives, since it is due to

the term “millionaire” rather than to the character of the

person who bears it, that the mere sound of the word

exercises upon rascals, upon decent folk, and upon folk

who are neither the one nor the other, an undeniable in-

fluence. A millionaire suffers from the disadvantage of

everywhere having to behold meanness, including the sort

of meanness which, though not actually based upon cal-

culations of self-interest, yet runs after the wealthy man

with smiles, and doffs his hat, and begs for invitations to

houses where the millionaire is known to be going to dine.

That a similar inclination to meanness seized upon the

ladies of N. goes without saying; with the result that

many a drawing-room heard it whispered that, if Chichikov

was not exactly a beauty, at least he was sufficiently good-

looking to serve for a husband, though he could have

borne to have been a little more rotund and stout. To

that there would be added scornful references to lean

husbands, and hints that they resembled tooth-brushes

rather than men—with many other feminine additions.

Also, such crowds of feminine shoppers began to repair to

the Bazaar as almost to constitute a crush, and some-

thing like a procession of carriages ensued, so long grew

the rank of vehicles. For their part, the tradesmen had the

joy of seeing highly priced dress materials which they had

brought at fairs, and then been unable to dispose of, now

suddenly become tradeable, and go off with a rush. For

instance, on one occasion a lady appeared at Mass in a

bustle which filled the church to an extent which led the

verger on duty to bid the commoner folk withdraw to the

porch, lest the lady’s toilet should be soiled in the crush.

Even Chichikov could not help privately remarking the at-

tention which he aroused. On one occasion, when he re-

turned to the inn, he found on his table a note addressed

to himself. Whence it had come, and who had delivered it,

166

Dead Soulshe failed to discover, for the waiter declared that the

person who had brought it had omitted to leave the name

of the writer. Beginning abruptly with the words “I must

write to you,” the letter went on to say that between a

certain pair of souls there existed a bond of sympathy;

and this verity the epistle further confirmed with rows of

full stops to the extent of nearly half a page. Next there

followed a few reflections of a correctitude so remarkable

that I have no choice but to quote them. “What, I would

ask, is this life of ours?” inquired the writer. “’Tis nought

but a vale of woe. And what, I would ask, is the world?

’Tis nought but a mob of unthinking humanity.” Thereaf-

ter, incidentally remarking that she had just dropped a

tear to the memory of her dear mother, who had departed

this life twenty-five years ago, the (presumably) lady writer

invited Chichikov to come forth into the wilds, and to

leave for ever the city where, penned in noisome haunts,

folk could not even draw their breath. In conclusion, the

writer gave way to unconcealed despair, and wound up

with the following verses:

“Two turtle doves to thee, one day,

My dust will show, congealed in death;

And, cooing wearily, they’ll say:

‘In grief and loneliness she drew her closing breath.’”

True, the last line did not scan, but that was a trifle, since

the quatrain at least conformed to the mode then preva-

lent. Neither signature nor date were appended to the

document, but only a postscript expressing a conjecture

that Chichikov’s own heart would tell him who the writer

was, and stating, in addition, that the said writer would

be present at the Governor’s ball on the following night.

This greatly interested Chichikov. Indeed, there was so

much that was alluring and provocative of curiosity in the

anonymous missive that he read it through a second time,

and then a third, and finally said to himself: “I should like

to know who sent it!” In short, he took the thing seri-

ously, and spent over an hour in considering the same. At

length, muttering a comment upon the epistle’s efflores-

cent style, he refolded the document, and committed it

to his dispatch-box in company with a play-bill and an

167

Gogolinvitation to a wedding—the latter of which had for the

last seven years reposed in the self-same receptacle and

in the self-same position. Shortly afterwards there arrived

a card of invitation to the Governor’s ball already referred

to. In passing, it may be said that such festivities are not

infrequent phenomena in county towns, for the reason

that where Governors exist there must take place balls if

from the local gentry there is to be evoked that respectful

affection which is every Governor’s due.

Thenceforth all extraneous thoughts and considerations

were laid aside in favour of preparing for the coming func-

tion. Indeed, this conjunction of exciting and provocative

motives led to Chichikov devoting to his toilet an amount

of time never witnessed since the creation of the world.

Merely in the contemplation of his features in the mirror,

as he tried to communicate to them a succession of vary-

ing expressions, was an hour spent. First of all he strove

to make his features assume an air of dignity and impor-

tance, and then an air of humble, but faintly satirical,

respect, and then an air of respect guiltless of any alloy

whatsoever. Next, he practised performing a series of bows

to his reflection, accompanied with certain murmurs in-

tended to bear a resemblance to a French phrase (though

Chichikov knew not a single word of the Gallic tongue).

Lastly came the performing of a series of what I might

call “agreeable surprises,” in the shape of twitchings of

the brow and lips and certain motions of the tongue. In

short, he did all that a man is apt to do when he is not

only alone, but also certain that he is handsome and that

no one is regarding him through a chink. Finally he tapped

himself lightly on the chin, and said, “Ah, good old face!”

In the same way, when he started to dress himself for the

ceremony, the level of his high spirits remained unim-

paired throughout the process. That is to say, while ad-

justing his braces and tying his tie, he shuffled his feet in

what was not exactly a dance, but might be called the

entr’acte of a dance: which performance had the not very

serious result of setting a wardrobe a-rattle, and causing

a brush to slide from the table to the floor.

Later, his entry into the ballroom produced an extraor-

dinary effect. Every one present came forward to meet

him, some with cards in their hands, and one man even

168

Dead Soulsbreaking off a conversation at the most interesting point—

namely, the point that “the Inferior Land Court must be

made responsible for everything.” Yes, in spite of the re-

sponsibility of the Inferior Land Court, the speaker cast

all thoughts of it to the winds as he hurried to greet our

hero. From every side resounded acclamations of welcome,

and Chichikov felt himself engulfed in a sea of embraces.

Thus, scarcely had he extricated himself from the arms of

the President of the Local Council when he found himself

just as firmly clasped in the arms of the Chief of Police,

who, in turn, surrendered him to the Inspector of the

Medical Department, who, in turn, handed him over to

the Commissioner of Taxes, who, again, committed him

to the charge of the Town Architect. Even the Governor,

who hitherto had been standing among his womenfolk

with a box of sweets in one hand and a lap-dog in the

other, now threw down both sweets and lap-dog (the lap-

dog giving vent to a yelp as he did so) and added his

greeting to those of the rest of the company. Indeed, not

a face was there to be seen on which ecstatic delight—or,

at all events, the reflection of other people’s ecstatic de-

light—was not painted. The same expression may be dis-

cerned on the faces of subordinate officials when, the

newly arrived Director having made his inspection, the

said officials are beginning to get over their first sense of

awe on perceiving that he has found much to commend,

and that he can even go so far as to jest and utter a few

words of smiling approval. Thereupon every tchinovnik

responds with a smile of double strength, and those who

(it may be) have not heard a single word of the Director’s

speech smile out of sympathy with the rest, and even the

gendarme who is posted at the distant door—a man, per-

haps, who has never before compassed a smile, but is

more accustomed to dealing out blows to the populace—

summons up a kind of grin, even though the grin re-

sembles the grimace of a man who is about to sneeze

after inadvertently taking an over-large pinch of snuff. To

all and sundry Chichikov responded with a bow, and felt

extraordinarily at his ease as he did so. To right and left

did he incline his head in the sidelong, yet unconstrained,

manner that was his wont and never failed to charm the

beholder. As for the ladies, they clustered around him in a

169

Gogolshining bevy that was redolent of every species of per-

fume—of roses, of spring violets, and of mignonette; so

much so that instinctively Chichikov raised his nose to

snuff the air. Likewise the ladies’ dresses displayed an end-

less profusion of taste and variety; and though the major-

ity of their wearers evinced a tendency to embonpoint,

those wearers knew how to call upon art for the conceal-

ment of the fact. Confronting them, Chichikov thought to

himself: “Which of these beauties is the writer of the let-

ter?” Then again he snuffed the air. When the ladies had,

to a certain extent, returned to their seats, he resumed

his attempts to discern (from glances and expressions)

which of them could possibly be the unknown authoress.

Yet, though those glances and expressions were too subtle,

too insufficiently open, the difficulty in no way dimin-

ished his high spirits. Easily and gracefully did he exchange

agreeable bandinage with one lady, and then approach

another one with the short, mincing steps usually affected

by young-old dandies who are fluttering around the fair.

As he turned, not without dexterity, to right and left, he

kept one leg slightly dragging behind the other, like a

short tail or comma. This trick the ladies particularly ad-

mired. In short, they not only discovered in him a host of

recommendations and attractions, but also began to see

in his face a sort of grand, Mars-like, military expression—

a thing which, as we know, never fails to please the femi-

nine eye. Certain of the ladies even took to bickering over

him, and, on perceiving that he spent most of his time

standing near the door, some of their number hastened to

occupy chairs nearer to his post of vantage. In fact, when

a certain dame chanced to have the good fortune to an-

ticipate a hated rival in the race there very nearly ensued

a most lamentable scene—which, to many of those who

had been desirous of doing exactly the same thing, seemed

a peculiarly horrible instance of brazen-faced audacity.

So deeply did Chichikov become plunged in conversa-

tion with his fair pursuers—or rather, so deeply did those

fair pursuers enmesh him in the toils of small talk (which

they accomplished through the expedient of asking him

endless subtle riddles which brought the sweat to his brow

in his attempts to guess them)—that he forgot the claims

of courtesy which required him first of all to greet his

170

Dead Soulshostess. In fact, he remembered those claims only on

hearing the Governor’s wife herself addressing him. She

had been standing before him for several minutes, and

now greeted him with suave expressement and the words,

“So here you are, Paul Ivanovitch!” But what she said

next I am not in a position to report, for she spoke in the

ultra-refined tone and vein wherein ladies and gentlemen

customarily express themselves in high-class novels which

have been written by experts more qualified than I am to

describe salons, and able to boast of some acquaintance

with good society. In effect, what the Governor’s wife

said was that she hoped—she greatly hoped—that Mon-

sieur Chichikov’s heart still contained a corner—even the

smallest possible corner—for those whom he had so cru-

elly forgotten. Upon that Chichikov turned to her, and

was on the point of returning a reply at least no worse

than that which would have been returned, under similar

circumstances, by the hero of a fashionable novelette,

when he stopped short, as though thunderstruck.

Before him there was standing not only Madame, but

also a young girl whom she was holding by the hand. The

golden hair, the fine-drawn, delicate contours, the face

with its bewitching oval—a face which might have served

as a model for the countenance of the Madonna, since it

was of a type rarely to be met with in Russia, where

nearly everything, from plains to human feet, is, rather,

on the gigantic scale; these features, I say, were those

of the identical maiden whom Chichikov had encoun-

tered on the road when he had been fleeing from

Nozdrev’s. His emotion was such that he could not for-

mulate a single intelligible syllable; he could merely

murmur the devil only knows what, though certainly

nothing of the kind which would have risen to the lips of

the hero of a fashionable novel.

“I think that you have not met my daughter before?”

said Madame. “She is just fresh from school.”

He replied that he had had the happiness of meeting

Mademoiselle before, and under rather unexpected circum-

stances; but on his trying to say something further his

tongue completely failed him. The Governor’s wife added

a word or two, and then carried off her daughter to speak

to some of the other guests.

171

GogolChichikov stood rooted to the spot, like a man who,

after issuing into the street for a pleasant walk, has sud-

denly come to a halt on remembering that something has

been left behind him. In a moment, as he struggles to

recall what that something is, the mien of careless ex-

pectancy disappears from his face, and he no longer sees

a single person or a single object in his vicinity. In the

same way did Chichikov suddenly become oblivious to the

scene around him. Yet all the while the melodious tongues

of ladies were plying him with multitudinous hints and

questions—hints and questions inspired with a desire to

captivate. “Might we poor cumberers of the ground make

so bold as to ask you what you are thinking of?” “Pray tell

us where lie the happy regions in which your thoughts are

wandering?” “Might we be informed of the name of her

who has plunged you into this sweet abandonment of

meditation?”—such were the phrases thrown at him. But

to everything he turned a dead ear, and the phrases in

question might as well have been stones dropped into a

pool. Indeed, his rudeness soon reached the pitch of his

walking away altogether, in order that he might go and

reconnoitre wither the Governor’s wife and daughter had

retreated. But the ladies were not going to let him off so

easily. Every one of them had made up her mind to use

upon him her every weapon, and to exhibit whatsoever

might chance to constitute her best point. Yet the ladies’

wiles proved useless, for Chichikov paid not the smallest

attention to them, even when the dancing had begun,

but kept raising himself on tiptoe to peer over people’s

heads and ascertain in which direction the bewitching

maiden with the golden hair had gone. Also, when seated,

he continued to peep between his neighbours’ backs and

shoulders, until at last he discovered her sitting beside

her mother, who was wearing a sort of Oriental turban and

feather. Upon that one would have thought that his pur-

pose was to carry the position by storm; for, whether

moved by the influence of spring, or whether moved by a

push from behind, he pressed forward with such desperate

resolution that his elbow caused the Commissioner of Taxes

to stagger on his feet, and would have caused him to lose

his balance altogether but for the supporting row of guests

in the rear. Likewise the Postmaster was made to give

172

Dead Soulsground; whereupon he turned and eyed Chichikov with

mingled astonishment and subtle irony. But Chichikov never

even noticed him; he saw in the distance only the golden-

haired beauty. At that moment she was drawing on a long

glove and, doubtless, pining to be flying over the danc-

ing-floor, where, with clicking heels, four couples had now

begun to thread the mazes of the mazurka. In particular

was a military staff-captain working body and soul and

arms and legs to compass such a series of steps as were

never before performed, even in a dream. However,

Chichikov slipped past the mazurka dancers, and, almost

treading on their heels, made his way towards the spot

where Madame and her daughter were seated. Yet he ap-

proached them with great diffidence and none of his late

mincing and prancing. Nay, he even faltered as he walked;

his every movement had about it an air of awkwardness.

It is difficult to say whether or not the feeling which

had awakened in our hero’s breast was the feeling of love;

for it is problematical whether or not men who are neither

stout nor thin are capable of any such sentiment. Never-

theless, something strange, something which he could not

altogether explain, had come upon him. It seemed as

though the ball, with its talk and its clatter, had suddenly

become a thing remote—that the orchestra had with-

drawn behind a hill, and the scene grown misty, like the

carelessly painted-in background of a picture. And from

that misty void there could be seen glimmering only the

delicate outlines of the bewitching maiden. Somehow her

exquisite shape reminded him of an ivory toy, in such fair,

white, transparent relief did it stand out against the dull

blur of the surrounding throng.

Herein we see a phenomenon not infrequently observed—

the phenomenon of the Chichikovs of this world becoming

temporarily poets. At all events, for a moment or two our

Chichikov felt that he was a young man again, if not ex-

actly a military officer. On perceiving an empty chair be-

side the mother and daughter, he hastened to occupy it,

and though conversation at first hung fire, things gradu-

ally improved, and he acquired more confidence.

At this point I must reluctantly deviate to say that men

of weight and high office are always a trifle ponderous

when conversing with ladies. Young lieutenants—or, at

173

Gogolall events, officers not above the rank of captain—are far

more successful at the game. How they contrive to be so

God only knows. Let them but make the most inane of

remarks, and at once the maiden by their side will be

rocking with laughter; whereas, should a State Councillor

enter into conversation with a damsel, and remark that

the Russian Empire is one of vast extent, or utter a com-

pliment which he has elaborated not without a certain

measure of intelligence (however strongly the said com-

pliment may smack of a book), of a surety the thing will

fall flat. Even a witticism from him will be laughed at far

more by him himself than it will by the lady who may

happen to be listening to his remarks.

These comments I have interposed for the purpose of

explaining to the reader why, as our hero conversed, the

maiden began to yawn. Blind to this, however, he contin-

ued to relate to her sundry adventures which had befallen

him in different parts of the world. Meanwhile (as need

hardly be said) the rest of the ladies had taken umbrage

at his behaviour. One of them purposely stalked past him

to intimate to him the fact, as well as to jostle the

Governor’s daughter, and let the flying end of a scarf flick

her face; while from a lady seated behind the pair came

both a whiff of violets and a very venomous and sarcastic

remark. Nevertheless, either he did not hear the remark or

he pretend not to hear it. This was unwise of him, since it

never does to disregard ladies’ opinions. Later-but too

late—he was destined to learn this to his cost.

In short, dissatisfaction began to display itself on every

feminine face. No matter how high Chichikov might stand

in society, and no matter how much he might be a mil-

lionaire and include in his expression of countenance an

indefinable element of grandness and martial ardour, there

are certain things which no lady will pardon, whosoever

be the person concerned. We know that at Governor’s balls

it is customary for the onlookers to compose verses at the

expense of the dancers; and in this case the verses were

directed to Chichikov’s address. Briefly, the prevailing dis-

satisfaction grew until a tacit edict of proscription had

been issued against both him and the poor young maiden.

But an even more unpleasant surprise was in store for

our hero; for whilst the young lady was still yawning as

174

Dead SoulsChichikov recounted to her certain of his past adventures

and also touched lightly upon the subject of Greek phi-

losophy, there appeared from an adjoining room the fig-

ure of Nozdrev. Whether he had come from the buffet, or

whether he had issued from a little green retreat where a

game more strenuous than whist had been in progress, or

whether he had left the latter resort unaided, or whether

he had been expelled therefrom, is unknown; but at all

events when he entered the ballroom, he was in an el-

evated condition, and leading by the arm the Public Pros-

ecutor, whom he seemed to have been dragging about for

a long while past, seeing that the poor man was glancing

from side to side as though seeking a means of putting an

end to this personally conducted tour. Certainly he must

have found the situation almost unbearable, in view of

the fact that, after deriving inspiration from two glasses

of tea not wholly undiluted with rum, Nozdrev was en-

gaged in lying unmercifully. On sighting him in the dis-

tance, Chichikov at once decided to sacrifice himself. That

is to say, he decided to vacate his present enviable posi-

tion and make off with all possible speed, since he could

see that an encounter with the newcomer would do him

no good. Unfortunately at that moment the Governor but-

tonholed him with a request that he would come and act

as arbiter between him (the Governor) and two ladies—

the subject of dispute being the question as to whether

or not woman’s love is lasting. Simultaneously Nozdrev

descried our hero and bore down upon him.

“Ah, my fine landowner of Kherson!” he cried with a

smile which set his fresh, spring-rose-pink cheeks a-quiver.

“Have you been doing much trade in departed souls lately?”

With that he turned to the Governor. “I suppose your

Excellency knows that this man traffics in dead peasants?”

he bawled. “Look here, Chichikov. I tell you in the most

friendly way possible that every one here likes you—yes,

including even the Governor. Nevertheless, had I my way,

I would hang you! Yes, by God I would!”

Chichikov’s discomfiture was complete.

“And, would you believe it, your Excellency,” went on

Nozdrev, “but this fellow actually said to me, ‘Sell me

your dead souls!’ Why, I laughed till I nearly became as

dead as the souls. And, behold, no sooner do I arrive here

175

Gogolthan I am told that he has bought three million roubles’

worth of peasants for transferment! For transferment, in-

deed! And he wanted to bargain with me for my DEAD

ones! Look here, Chichikov. You are a swine! Yes, by God,

you are an utter swine! Is not that so, your Excellency? Is

not that so, friend Prokurator*?”

But both his Excellency, the Public Prosecutor, and

Chichikov were too taken aback to reply. The half-tipsy

Nozdrev, without noticing them, continued his harangue

as before.

“Ah, my fine sir!” he cried. “This time I don’t mean to

let you go. No, not until I have learnt what all this pur-

chasing of dead peasants means. Look here. You ought to

be ashamed of yourself. Yes, I say that—I who am one of

your best friends.” Here he turned to the Governor again.

“Your Excellency,” he continued, “you would never be-

lieve what inseperables this man and I have been. Indeed,

if you had stood there and said to me, ‘Nozdrev, tell me

on your honour which of the two you love best—your

father or Chichikov?’ I should have replied, ‘Chichikov, by

God!’” With that he tackled our hero again, “Come, come,

my friend!” he urged. “Let me imprint upon your cheeks a

baiser or two. You will excuse me if I kiss him, will you

not, your Excellency? No, do not resist me, Chichikov, but

allow me to imprint at least one baiser upon your lily-

white cheek.” And in his efforts to force upon Chichikov

what he termed his “baisers” he came near to measuring

his length upon the floor.

Every one now edged away, and turned a deaf ear to his

further babblings; but his words on the subject of the

purchase of dead souls had none the less been uttered at

the top of his voice, and been accompanied with such

uproarious laughter that the curiosity even of those who

had happened to be sitting or standing in the remoter

corners of the room had been aroused. So strange and

novel seemed the idea that the company stood with faces

expressive of nothing but a dumb, dull wonder. Only some

of the ladies (as Chichikov did not fail to remark) ex-

changed meaning, ill-natured winks and a series of sarcas-

tic smiles: which circumstance still further increased his

confusion. That Nozdrev was a notorious liar every one, of*Public Prosecutor.

176

Dead Soulscourse, knew, and that he should have given vent to an

idiotic outburst of this sort had surprised no one; but a

dead soul—well, what was one to make of Nozdrev’s ref-

erence to such a commodity?

Naturally this unseemly contretemps had greatly upset

our hero; for, however foolish be a madman’s words, they

may yet prove sufficient to sow doubt in the minds of

saner individuals. He felt much as does a man who, shod

with well-polished boots, has just stepped into a dirty,

stinking puddle. He tried to put away from him the occur-

rence, and to expand, and to enjoy himself once more.

Nay, he even took a hand at whist. But all was of no

avail—matters kept going as awry as a badly-bent hoop.

Twice he blundered in his play, and the President of the

Council was at a loss to understand how his friend, Paul

Ivanovitch, lately so good and so circumspect a player,

could perpetrate such a mauvais pas as to throw away a

particular king of spades which the President has been

“trusting” as (to quote his own expression) “he would

have trusted God.” At supper, too, matters felt uncom-

fortable, even though the society at Chichikov’s table was

exceedingly agreeable and Nozdrev had been removed,

owing to the fact that the ladies had found his conduct

too scandalous to be borne, now that the delinquent had

taken to seating himself on the floor and plucking at the

skirts of passing lady dancers. As I say, therefore, Chichikov

found the situation not a little awkward, and eventually

put an end to it by leaving the supper room before the

meal was over, and long before the hour when usually he

returned to the inn.

In his little room, with its door of communication

blocked with a wardrobe, his frame of mind remained as

uncomfortable as the chair in which he was seated. His

heart ached with a dull, unpleasant sensation, with a sort

of oppressive emptiness.

“The devil take those who first invented balls!” was his

reflection. “Who derives any real pleasure from them? In

this province there exist want and scarcity everywhere:

yet folk go in for balls! How absurd, too, were those over-

dressed women! One of them must have had a thousand

roubles on her back, and all acquired at the expense of

the overtaxed peasant, or, worse still, at that of the con-

177

Gogolscience of her neighbour. Yes, we all know why bribes are

accepted, and why men become crooked in soul. It is all

done to provide wives—yes, may the pit swallow them

up!—with fal-lals. And for what purpose? That some

woman may not have to reproach her husband with the

fact that, say, the Postmaster’s wife is wearing a better

dress than she is—a dress which has cost a thousand

roubles! ‘Balls and gaiety, balls and gaiety’ is the constant

cry. Yet what folly balls are! They do not consort with the

Russian spirit and genius, and the devil only knows why

we have them. A grown, middle-aged man—a man dressed

in black, and looking as stiff as a poker—suddenly takes

the floor and begins shuffling his feet about, while an-

other man, even though conversing with a companion on

important business, will, the while, keep capering to right

and left like a billy-goat! Mimicry, sheer mimicry! The fact

that the Frenchman is at forty precisely what he was at

fifteen leads us to imagine that we too, forsooth, ought

to be the same. No; a ball leaves one feeling that one has

done a wrong thing—so much so that one does not care

even to think of it. It also leaves one’s head perfectly

empty, even as does the exertion of talking to a man of

the world. A man of that kind chatters away, and touches

lightly upon every conceivable subject, and talks in smooth,

fluent phrases which he has culled from books without

grazing their substance; whereas go and have a chat with

a tradesman who knows at least one thing thoroughly,

and through the medium of experience, and see whether

his conversation will not be worth more than the prattle

of a thousand chatterboxes. For what good does one get

out of balls? Suppose that a competent writer were to

describe such a scene exactly as it stands? Why, even in a

book it would seem senseless, even as it certainly is in

life. Are, therefore, such functions right or wrong? One

would answer that the devil alone knows, and then spit

and close the book.”

Such were the unfavourable comments which Chichikov

passed upon balls in general. With it all, however, there

went a second source of dissatisfaction. That is to say, his

principal grudge was not so much against balls as against

the fact that at this particular one he had been exposed,

he had been made to disclose the circumstance that he

178

Dead Soulshad been playing a strange, an ambiguous part. Of course,

when he reviewed the contretemps in the light of pure

reason, he could not but see that it mattered nothing,

and that a few rude words were of no account now that

the chief point had been attained; yet man is an odd

creature, and Chichikov actually felt pained by the could-

shouldering administered to him by persons for whom he

had not an atom of respect, and whose vanity and love of

display he had only that moment been censuring. Still

more, on viewing the matter clearly, he felt vexed to think

that he himself had been so largely the cause of the ca-

tastrophe.

Yet he was not angry with himself—of that you may be

sure, seeing that all of us have a slight weakness for spar-

ing our own faults, and always do our best to find some

fellow-creature upon whom to vent our displeasure—

whether that fellow-creature be a servant, a subordinate

official, or a wife. In the same way Chichikov sought a

scapegoat upon whose shoulders he could lay the blame

for all that had annoyed him. He found one in Nozdrev,

and you may be sure that the scapegoat in question re-

ceived a good drubbing from every side, even as an expe-

rienced captain or chief of police will give a knavish starosta

or postboy a rating not only in the terms become classi-

cal, but also in such terms as the said captain or chief of

police may invent for himself. In short, Nozdrev’s whole

lineage was passed in review; and many of its members in

the ascending line fared badly in the process.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the town there was in

progress an event which was destined to augment still

further the unpleasantness of our hero’s position. That is

to say, through the outlying streets and alleys of the town

there was clattering a vehicle to which it would be diffi-

cult precisely to assign a name, seeing that, though it

was of a species peculiar to itself, it most nearly resembled

a large, rickety water melon on wheels. Eventually this

monstrosity drew up at the gates of a house where the

archpriest of one of the churches resided, and from its

doors there leapt a damsel clad in a jerkin and wearing a

scarf over her head. For a while she thumped the gates so

vigorously as to set all the dogs barking; then the gates

stiffly opened, and admitted this unwieldy phenomenon

179

Gogolof the road. Lastly, the barinia herself alighted, and stood

revealed as Madame Korobotchka, widow of a Collegiate

Secretary! The reason of her sudden arrival was that she

had felt so uneasy about the possible outcome of

Chichikov’s whim, that during the three nights following

his departure she had been unable to sleep a wink; where-

after, in spite of the fact that her horses were not shod,

she had set off for the town, in order to learn at first hand

how the dead souls were faring, and whether (which might

God forfend!) she had not sold them at something like a

third of their true value. The consequences of her venture

the reader will learn from a conversation between two

ladies. We will reserve it for the ensuing chapter.

CHAPTER IX

Next morning, before the usual hour for paying calls, there

tripped from the portals of an orange-coloured wooden

house with an attic storey and a row of blue pillars a lady

in an elegant plaid cloak. With her came a footman in a

many-caped greatcoat and a polished top hat with a gold

band. Hastily, but gracefully, the lady ascended the steps

let down from a koliaska which was standing before the

entrance, and as soon as she had done so the footman

shut her in, put up the steps again, and, catching hold of

the strap behind the vehicle, shouted to the coachman,

“Right away!” The reason of all this was that the lady was

the possessor of a piece of intelligence that she was burn-

ing to communicate to a fellow-creature. Every moment

she kept looking out of the carriage window, and perceiv-

ing, with almost speechless vexation, that, as yet, she

was but half-way on her journey. The fronts of the houses

appeared to her longer than usual, and in particular did

the front of the white stone hospital, with its rows of

narrow windows, seem interminable to a degree which at

180

Dead Soulslength forced her to ejaculate: “Oh, the cursed building!

Positively there is no end to it!” Also, she twice adjured

the coachman with the words, “Go quicker, Andrusha!

You are a horribly long time over the journey this morn-

ing.” But at length the goal was reached, and the koliaska

stopped before a one-storied wooden mansion, dark grey in

colour, and having white carvings over the windows, a tall

wooden fence and narrow garden in front of the latter, and

a few meagre trees looming white with an incongruous

coating of road dust. In the windows of the building were

also a few flower pots and a parrot that kept alternately

dancing on the floor of its cage and hanging on to the ring

of the same with its beak. Also, in the sunshine before the

door two pet dogs were sleeping. Here there lived the lady’s

bosom friend. As soon as the bosom friend in question

learnt of the newcomer’s arrival, she ran down into the hall,

and the two ladies kissed and embraced one another. Then

they adjourned to the drawing-room.

“How glad I am to see you!” said the bosom friend.

“When I heard some one arriving I wondered who could

possibly be calling so early. Parasha declared that it must

be the Vice-Governor’s wife, so, as I did not want to be

bored with her, I gave orders that I was to be reported

‘not at home.’”

For her part, the guest would have liked to have pro-

ceeded to business by communicating her tidings, but a

sudden exclamation from the hostess imparted (tempo-

rarily) a new direction to the conversation.

“What a pretty chintz!” she cried, gazing at the other’s

gown.

“Yes, it is pretty,” agreed the visitor. “On the other

hand, Praskovia Thedorovna thinks that—”

In other words, the ladies proceeded to indulge in a

conversation on the subject of dress; and only after this

had lasted for a considerable while did the visitor let fall a

remark which led her entertainer to inquire:

“And how is the universal charmer?”

“My God!” replied the other. “There has been such a

business! In fact, do you know why I am here at all?” And

the visitor’s breathing became more hurried, and further

words seemed to be hovering between her lips like hawks

preparing to stoop upon their prey. Only a person of the

181

Gogolunhumanity of a “true friend” would have had the heart

to interrupt her; but the hostess was just such a friend,

and at once interposed with:

“I wonder how any one can see anything in the man to

praise or to admire. For my own part, I think—and I

would say the same thing straight to his face—that he is

a perfect rascal.”

“Yes, but do listen to what I have got to tell you.”

“Oh, I know that some people think him handsome,”

continued the hostess, unmoved; “but I say that he is

nothing of the kind—that, in particular, his nose is per-

fectly odious.”

“Yes, but let me finish what I was saying.” The guest’s

tone was almost piteous in its appeal.

“What is it, then?”

“You cannot imagine my state of mind! You see, this

morning I received a visit from Father Cyril’s wife—the

Archpriest’s wife—you know her, don’t you? Well, whom

do you suppose that fine gentleman visitor of ours has

turned out to be?”

“The man who has built the Archpriest a poultry-run?”

“Oh dear no! Had that been all, it would have been

nothing. No. Listen to what Father Cyril’s wife had to tell

me. She said that, last night, a lady landowner named

Madame Korobotchka arrived at the Archpriest’s house—

arrived all pale and trembling—and told her, oh, such

things! They sound like a piece out of a book. That is to

say, at dead of night, just when every one had retired to

rest, there came the most dreadful knocking imaginable,

and some one screamed out, ‘Open the gates, or we will

break them down!’ Just think! After this, how any one can

say that the man is charming I cannot imagine.”

“Well, what of Madame Korobotchka? Is she a young

woman or good looking?”

“Oh dear no! Quite an old woman.”

“Splendid indeed! So he is actually engaged to a person

like that? One may heartily commend the taste of our

ladies for having fallen in love with him!”

“Nevertheless, it is not as you suppose. Think, now!

Armed with weapons from head to foot, he called upon

this old woman, and said: ‘Sell me any souls of yours

which have lately died.’ Of course, Madame Korobotchka

182

Dead Soulsanswered, reasonably enough: ‘I cannot sell you those

souls, seeing that they have departed this world;’ but he

replied: ‘No, no! They are not dead. ’Tis I who tell you

that—I who ought to know the truth of the matter. I

swear that they are still alive.’ In short, he made such a

scene that the whole village came running to the house,

and children screamed, and men shouted, and no one could

tell what it was all about. The affair seemed to me so

horrible, so utterly horrible, that I trembled beyond belief

as I listened to the story. ‘My dearest madam,’ said my

maid, Mashka, ‘pray look at yourself in the mirror, and see

how white you are.’ ‘But I have no time for that,’ I replied,

‘as I must be off to tell my friend, Anna Grigorievna, the

news.’ Nor did I lose a moment in ordering the koliaska.

Yet when my coachman, Andrusha, asked me for direc-

tions I could not get a word out—I just stood staring at

him like a fool, until I thought he must think me mad.

Oh, Anna Grigorievna, if you but knew how upset I am!”

“What a strange affair!” commented the hostess. “What

on earth can the man have meant by ‘dead souls’? I con-

fess that the words pass my understanding. Curiously

enough, this is the second time I have heard speak of

those souls. True, my husband avers that Nozdrev was

lying; yet in his lies there seems to have been a grain of

truth.”

“Well, just think of my state when I heard all this! ‘And

now,’ apparently said Korobotchka to the Archpriest’s wife,

‘I am altogether at a loss what to do, for, throwing me

fifteen roubles, the man forced me to sign a worthless

paper—yes, me, an inexperienced, defenceless widow who

knows nothing of business.’ That such things should hap-

pen! Try and imagine my feelings!”

“In my opinion, there is in this more than the dead

souls which meet the eye.”

“I think so too,” agreed the other. As a matter of fact,

her friend’s remark had struck her with complete surprise,

as well as filled her with curiosity to know what the word

“more” might possibly signify. In fact, she felt driven to

inquire: “What do you suppose to be hidden beneath it

all?”

“No; tell me what you suppose?”

“What I suppose? I am at a loss to conjecture.”

183

Gogol“Yes, but tell me what is in your mind?”

Upon this the visitor had to confess herself nonplussed;

for, though capable of growing hysterical, she was inca-

pable of propounding any rational theory. Consequently she

felt the more that she needed tender comfort and advice.

“Then this is what I think about the dead souls,” said

the hostess. Instantly the guest pricked up her ears (or,

rather, they pricked themselves up) and straightened her-

self and became, somehow, more modish, and, despite

her not inconsiderable weight, posed herself to look like a

piece of thistledown floating on the breeze.

“The dead souls,” began the hostess.

“Are what, are what?” inquired the guest in great ex-

citement.

“Are, are—”

“Tell me, tell me, for heaven’s sake!”

“They are an invention to conceal something else. The man’s

real object is, is—to abduct the governor’s daughter.”

So startling and unexpected was this conclusion that

the guest sat reduced to a state of pale, petrified, genu-

ine amazement.

“My God!” she cried, clapping her hands, “I should never

have guessed it!”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I guessed it as soon as ever

you opened your mouth.”

“So much, then, for educating girls like the Governor’s

daughter at school! Just see what comes of it!”

“Yes, indeed! And they tell me that she says things which

I hesitate even to repeat.”

“Truly it wrings one’s heart to see to what lengths im-

morality has come.”

“Some of the men have quite lost their heads about her,

but for my part I think her not worth noticing.”

“Of course. And her manners are unbearable. But what

puzzles me most is how a travelled man like Chichikov

could come to let himself in for such an affair. Surely he

must have accomplices?”

“Yes; and I should say that one of those accomplices is

Nozdrev.”

“Surely not?”

“Certainly I should say so. Why, I have known him even try

to sell his own father! At all events he staked him at cards.”

184

Dead Souls“Indeed? You interest me. I should never had thought

him capable of such things.”

“I always guessed him to be so.”

The two ladies were still discussing the matter with acu-

men and success when there walked into the room the

Public Prosecutor—bushy eyebrows, motionless features,

blinking eyes, and all. At once the ladies hastened to

inform him of the events related, adducing therewith full

details both as to the purchase of dead souls and as to

the scheme to abduct the Governor’s daughter; after which

they departed in different directions, for the purpose of

raising the rest of the town. For the execution of this

undertaking not more than half an hour was required. So

thoroughly did they succeed in throwing dust in the public’s

eyes that for a while every one—more especially the army

of public officials—was placed in the position of a school-

boy who, while still asleep, has had a bag of pepper thrown

in his face by a party of more early-rising comrades. The

questions now to be debated resolved themselves into

two—namely, the question of the dead souls and the ques-

tion of the Governor’s daughter. To this end two parties

were formed—the men’s party and the feminine section.

The men’s party—the more absolutely senseless of the

two—devoted its attention to the dead souls: the women’s

party occupied itself exclusively with the alleged abduc-

tion of the Governor’s daughter. And here it may be said

(to the ladies’ credit) that the women’s party displayed

far more method and caution than did its rival faction,

probably because the function in life of its members had

always been that of managing and administering a house-

hold. With the ladies, therefore, matters soon assumed

vivid and definite shape; they became clearly and irrefut-

ably materialised; they stood stripped of all doubt and

other impedimenta. Said some of the ladies in question,

Chichikov had long been in love with the maiden, and the

pair had kept tryst by the light of the moon, while the

Governor would have given his consent (seeing that

Chichikov was as rich as a Jew) but for the obstacle that

Chichikov had deserted a wife already (how the worthy

dames came to know that he was married remains a mys-

tery), and the said deserted wife, pining with love for her

faithless husband, had sent the Governor a letter of the

185

Gogolmost touching kind, so that Chichikov, on perceiving that

the father and mother would never give their consent,

had decided to abduct the girl. In other circles the matter

was stated in a different way. That is to say, this section

averred that Chichikov did not possess a wife, but that, as

a man of subtlety and experience, he had bethought him

of obtaining the daughter’s hand through the expedient

of first tackling the mother and carrying on with her an

ardent liaison, and that, thereafter, he had made an appli-

cation for the desired hand, but that the mother, fearing

to commit a sin against religion, and feeling in her heart

certain gnawings of conscience, had returned a blank re-

fusal to Chichikov’s request; whereupon Chichikov had

decided to carry out the abduction alleged. To the forego-

ing, of course, there became appended various additional

proofs and items of evidence, in proportion as the sensa-

tion spread to more remote corners of the town. At length,

with these perfectings, the affair reached the ears of the

Governor’s wife herself. Naturally, as the mother of a fam-

ily, and as the first lady in the town, and as a matron who

had never before been suspected of things of the kind,

she was highly offended when she heard the stories, and

very justly so: with the result that her poor young daugh-

ter, though innocent, had to endure about as unpleasant

a tete-a-tete as ever befell a maiden of sixteen, while, for

his part, the Swiss footman received orders never at any

time to admit Chichikov to the house.

Having done their business with the Governor’s wife, the

ladies’ party descended upon the male section, with a

view to influencing it to their own side by asserting that

the dead souls were an invention used solely for the pur-

pose of diverting suspicion and successfully affecting the

abduction. And, indeed, more than one man was con-

verted, and joined the feminine camp, in spite of the fact

that thereby such seceders incurred strong names from

their late comrades—names such as “old women,” “pet-

ticoats,” and others of a nature peculiarly offensive to the

male sex.

Also, however much they might arm themselves and

take the field, the men could not compass such orderli-

ness within their ranks as could the women. With the

former everything was of the antiquated and rough-hewn

186

Dead Soulsand ill-fitting and unsuitable and badly-adapted and infe-

rior kind; their heads were full of nothing but discord and

triviality and confusion and slovenliness of thought. In

brief, they displayed everywhere the male bent, the rude,

ponderous nature which is incapable either of managing a

household or of jumping to a conclusion, as well as re-

mains always distrustful and lazy and full of constant doubt

and everlasting timidity. For instance, the men’s party

declared that the whole story was rubbish—that the al-

leged abduction of the Governor’s daughter was the work

rather of a military than of a civilian culprit; that the

ladies were lying when they accused Chichikov of the deed;

that a woman was like a money-bag—whatsoever you put

into her she thenceforth retained; that the subject which

really demanded attention was the dead souls, of which

the devil only knew the meaning, but in which there cer-

tainly lurked something that was contrary to good order

and discipline. One reason why the men’s party was so

certain that the dead souls connoted something contrary

to good order and discipline, was that there had just been

appointed to the province a new Governor-General—an

event which, of course, had thrown the whole army of

provincial tchinovniks into a state of great excitement,

seeing that they knew that before long there would ensue

transferments and sentences of censure, as well as the

series of official dinners with which a Governor-General is

accustomed to entertain his subordinates. “Alas,” thought

the army of tchinovniks, “it is probable that, should he

learn of the gross reports at present afloat in our town,

he will make such a fuss that we shall never hear the last

of them.” In particular did the Director of the Medical

Department turn pale at the thought that possibly the

new Governor-General would surmise the term “dead folk”

to connote patients in the local hospitals who, for want

of proper preventative measures, had died of sporadic fe-

ver. Indeed, might it not be that Chichikov was neither

more nor less than an emissary of the said Governor-Gen-

eral, sent to conduct a secret inquiry? Accordingly he

(the Director of the Medical Department) communicated

this last supposition to the President of the Council, who,

though at first inclined to ejaculate “Rubbish!” suddenly

turned pale on propounding to himself the theory. “What

187

Gogolif the souls purchased by Chichikov should really be dead

ones?”—a terrible thought considering that he, the Presi-

dent, had permitted their transferment to be registered,

and had himself acted as Plushkin’s representative! What

if these things should reach the Governor-General’s ears?

He mentioned the matter to one friend and another, and

they, in their turn, went white to the lips, for panic spreads

faster and is even more destructive, than the dreaded black

death. Also, to add to the tchinovniks’ troubles, it so

befell that just at this juncture there came into the local

Governor’s hands two documents of great importance. The

first of them contained advices that, according to re-

ceived evidence and reports, there was operating in the

province a forger of rouble-notes who had been passing

under various aliases and must therefore be sought for

with the utmost diligence; while the second document

was a letter from the Governor of a neighbouring province

with regard to a malefactor who had there evaded appre-

hension—a letter conveying also a warning that, if in the

province of the town of N. there should appear any suspi-

cious individual who could produce neither references nor

passports, he was to be arrested forthwith. These two

documents left every one thunderstruck, for they knocked

on the head all previous conceptions and theories. Not for

a moment could it be supposed that the former docu-

ment referred to Chichikov; yet, as each man pondered

the position from his own point of view, he remembered

that no one really knew who Chichikov was; as also that

his vague references to himself had—yes!—included state-

ments that his career in the service had suffered much to

the cause of Truth, and that he possessed a number of

enemies who were seeking his life. This gave the tchinovniks

further food for thought. Perhaps his life really did stand

in danger? Perhaps he really was being sought for by some

one? Perhaps he really had done something of the kind

above referred to? As a matter of fact, who was he?—not

that it could actually be supposed that he was a forger of

notes, still less a brigand, seeing that his exterior was

respectable in the highest degree. Yet who was he? At

length the tchinovniks decided to make enquiries among

those of whom he had purchased souls, in order that at

least it might be learnt what the purchases had consisted

188

Dead Soulsof, and what exactly underlay them, and whether, in pass-

ing, he had explained to any one his real intentions, or

revealed to any one his identity. In the first instance,

therefore, resort was had to Korobotchka. Yet little was

gleaned from that source—merely a statement that he

had bought of her some souls for fifteen roubles apiece,

and also a quantity of feathers, while promising also to

buy some other commodities in the future, seeing that,

in particular, he had entered into a contract with the

Treasury for lard, a fact constituting fairly presumptive

proof that the man was a rogue, seeing that just such

another fellow had bought a quantity of feathers, yet had

cheated folk all round, and, in particular, had done the

Archpriest out of over a hundred roubles. Thus the net

result of Madame’s cross-examination was to convince the

tchinovniks that she was a garrulous, silly old woman.

With regard to Manilov, he replied that he would answer

for Chichikov as he would for himself, and that he would

gladly sacrifice his property in toto if thereby he could

attain even a tithe of the qualities which Paul Ivanovitch

possessed. Finally, he delivered on Chichikov, with acutely-

knitted brows, a eulogy couched in the most charming of

terms, and coupled with sundry sentiments on the sub-

ject of friendship and affection in general. True, these

remarks sufficed to indicate the tender impulses of the

speaker’s heart, but also they did nothing to enlighten his

examiners concerning the business that was actually at

hand. As for Sobakevitch, that landowner replied that he

considered Chichikov an excellent fellow, as well as that

the souls whom he had sold to his visitor had been in the

truest sense of the word alive, but that he could not

answer for anything which might occur in the future, see-

ing that any difficulties which might arise in the course of

the actual transferment of souls would not be his fault, in

view of the fact that God was lord of all, and that fevers

and other mortal complaints were so numerous in the

world, and that instances of whole villages perishing

through the same could be found on record.

Finally, our friends the tchinovniks found themselves

compelled to resort to an expedient which, though not

particularly savoury, is not infrequently employed—namely,

the expedient of getting lacqueys quietly to approach the

189

Gogolservants of the person concerning whom information is

desired, and to ascertain from them (the servants) cer-

tain details with regard to their master’s life and ante-

cedents. Yet even from this source very little was ob-

tained, since Petrushka provided his interrogators merely

with a taste of the smell of his living-room, and Selifan

confined his replies to a statement that the barin had

“been in the employment of the State, and also had

served in the Customs.”

In short, the sum total of the results gathered by the

tchinovniks was that they still stood in ignorance of

Chichikov’s identity, but that he must be some one; where-

fore it was decided to hold a final debate on the subject on

what ought to be done, and who Chichikov could possibly

be, and whether or not he was a man who ought to be

apprehended and detained as not respectable, or whether

he was a man who might himself be able to apprehend and

detain them as persons lacking in respectability. The debate

in question, it was proposed, should be held at the resi-

dence of the Chief of Police, who is known to our readers as

the father and the general benefactor of the town.

CHAPTER X

On assembling at the residence indicated, the tchinovniks

had occasion to remark that, owing to all these cares and

excitements, every one of their number had grown thin-

ner. Yes, the appointment of a new Governor-General,

coupled with the rumours described and the reception of

the two serious documents above-mentioned, had left

manifest traces upon the features of every one present.

More than one frockcoat had come to look too large for

its wearer, and more than one frame had fallen away, in-

cluding the frames of the President of the Council, the

Director of the Medical Department, and the Public Pros-

ecutor. Even a certain Semen Ivanovitch, who, for some

reason or another, was never alluded to by his family name,

but who wore on his index finger a ring with which he was

accustomed to dazzle his lady friends, had diminished in

bulk. Yet, as always happens at such junctures, there were

also present a score of brazen individuals who had suc-

ceeded in not losing their presence of mind, even though

they constituted a mere sprinkling. Of them the Postmas-

190

Dead Soulster formed one, since he was a man of equable tempera-

ment who could always say: “We know you, Governor-

Generals! We have seen three or four of you come and go,

whereas we have been sitting on the same stools these

thirty years.” Nevertheless a prominent feature of the gath-

ering was the total absence of what is vulgarly known as

“common sense.” In general, we Russians do not make a

good show at representative assemblies, for the reason

that, unless there be in authority a leading spirit to con-

trol the rest, the affair always develops into confusion.

Why this should be so one could hardly say, but at all

events a success is scored only by such gatherings as have

for their object dining and festivity—to wit, gatherings

at clubs or in German-run restaurants. However, on the

present occasion, the meeting was not one of this kind; it

was a meeting convoked of necessity, and likely in view of

the threatened calamity to affect every tchinovnik in the

place. Also, in addition to the great divergency of views

expressed thereat, there was visible in all the speakers an

invincible tendency to indecision which led them at one

moment to make assertions, and at the next to contradict

the same. But on at least one point all seemed to agree—

namely, that Chichikov’s appearance and conversation were

too respectable for him to be a forger or a disguised brig-

and. That is to say, all seemed to agree on the point; until

a sudden shout arose from the direction of the Postmas-

ter, who for some time past had been sitting plunged in

thought.

“I can tell you,” he cried, “who Chichikov is!”

“Who, then?” replied the crowd in great excitement.

“He is none other than Captain Kopeikin.”

“And who may Captain Kopeikin be?”

Taking a pinch of snuff (which he did with the lid of his

snuff-box half-open, lest some extraneous person should

contrive to insert a not over-clean finger into the stuff),

the Postmaster related the following story*.

“After fighting in the campaign of 1812, there was sent

home, wounded, a certain Captain Kopeikin—a headstrong,

lively blade who, whether on duty or under arrest, made

things lively for everybody. Now, since at Krasni or at

*To reproduce this story with a raciness worthy of theRussian original is practically impossible. The translatorhas not attempted the task.

191

GogolLeipzig (it matters not which) he had lost an arm and a

leg, and in those days no provision was made for wounded

soldiers, and he could not work with his left arm alone, he

set out to see his father. Unfortunately his father could

only just support himself, and was forced to tell his son

so; wherefore the Captain decided to go and apply for

help in St. Petersburg, seeing that he had risked his life

for his country, and had lost much blood in its service.

You can imagine him arriving in the capital on a baggage

waggon—in the capital which is like no other city in the

world! Before him there lay spread out the whole field of

life, like a sort of Arabian Nights—a picture made up of

the Nevski Prospect, Gorokhovaia Street, countless taper-

ing spires, and a number of bridges apparently supported

on nothing—in fact, a regular second Nineveh. Well, he

made shift to hire a lodging, but found everything so

wonderfully furnished with blinds and Persian carpets and

so forth that he saw it would mean throwing away a lot of

money. True, as one walks the streets of St. Petersburg

one seems to smell money by the thousand roubles, but

our friend Kopeikin’s bank was limited to a few score cop-

pers and a little silver—not enough to buy a village with!

At length, at the price of a rouble a day, he obtained a

lodging in the sort of tavern where the daily ration is a

bowl of cabbage soup and a crust of bread; and as he felt

that he could not manage to live very long on fare of that

kind he asked folk what he had better do. ‘What you had

better do?’ they said. ‘Well the Government is not here—

it is in Paris, and the troops have not yet returned from

the war; but there is a temporary Commission sitting, and

you had better go and see what it can do for you.’ ‘All

right!’ he said. ‘I will go and tell the Commission that I

have shed my blood, and sacrificed my life, for my coun-

try.’ And he got up early one morning, and shaved himself

with his left hand (since the expense of a barber was not

worth while), and set out, wooden leg and all, to see the

President of the Commission. But first he asked where the

President lived, and was told that his house was in

Naberezhnaia Street. And you may be sure that it was no

peasant’s hut, with its glazed windows and great mirrors

and statues and lacqueys and brass door handles! Rather,

it was the sort of place which you would enter only after

192

Dead Soulsyou had bought a cheap cake of soap and indulged in a

two hours’ wash. Also, at the entrance there was posted a

grand Swiss footman with a baton and an embroidered

collar—a fellow looking like a fat, over-fed pug dog. How-

ever, friend Kopeikin managed to get himself and his

wooden leg into the reception room, and there squeezed

himself away into a corner, for fear lest he should knock

down the gilded china with his elbow. And he stood wait-

ing in great satisfaction at having arrived before the Presi-

dent had so much as left his bed and been served with his

silver wash-basin. Nevertheless, it was only when Kopeikin

had been waiting four hours that a breakfast waiter en-

tered to say, ‘The President will soon be here.’ By now the

room was as full of people as a plate is of beans, and when

the President left the breakfast-room he brought with him,

oh, such dignity and refinement, and such an air of the

metropolis! First he walked up to one person, and then up

to another, saying: ‘What do you want? And what do you

want? What can I do for you? What is your business?’ And

at length he stopped before Kopeikin, and Kopeikin said

to him: ‘I have shed my blood, and lost both an arm and

a leg, for my country, and am unable to work. Might I

therefore dare to ask you for a little help, if the regula-

tions should permit of it, or for a gratuity, or for a pen-

sion, or something of the kind?’ Then the President looked

at him, and saw that one of his legs was indeed a wooden

one, and that an empty right sleeve was pinned to his

uniform. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Come to me again in a few

days’ time.’ Upon this friend Kopeikin felt delighted. ‘NOW

I have done my job!’ he thought to himself; and you may

imagine how gaily he trotted along the pavement, and

how he dropped into a tavern for a glass of vodka, and

how he ordered a cutlet and some caper sauce and some

other things for luncheon, and how he called for a bottle

of wine, and how he went to the theatre in the evening!

In short, he did himself thoroughly well. Next, he saw in

the street a young English lady, as graceful as a swan, and

set off after her on his wooden leg. ‘But no,’ he thought

to himself. ‘To the devil with that sort of thing just now!

I will wait until I have drawn my pension. For the present

I have spent enough.’ (And I may tell you that by now he

had got through fully half his money.) Two or three days

193

Gogollater he went to see the President of the Commission again.

‘I should be glad to know,’ he said, ‘whether by now you

can do anything for me in return for my having shed my

blood and suffered sickness and wounds on military ser-

vice.’ ‘First of all,’ said the President, ‘I must tell you that

nothing can be decided in your case without the author-

ity of the Supreme Government. Without that sanction we

cannot move in the matter. Surely you see how things

stand until the army shall have returned from the war? All

that I can advise you to do is wait for the Minister to

return, and, in the meanwhile, to have patience. Rest as-

sured that then you will not be overlooked. And if for the

moment you have nothing to live upon, this is the best

that I can do for you.’ With that he handed Kopeikin a

trifle until his case should have been decided. However,

that was not what Kopeikin wanted. He had supposed

that he would be given a gratuity of a thousand roubles

straight away; whereas, instead of ‘Drink and be merry,’ it

was ‘Wait, for the time is not yet.’ Thus, though his head

had been full of soup plates and cutlets and English girls,

he now descended the steps with his ears and his tail

down—looking, in fact, like a poodle over which the cook

has poured a bucketful of water. You see, St. Petersburg

life had changed him not a little since first he had got a

taste of it, and, now that the devil only knew how he was

going to live, it came all the harder to him that he should

have no more sweets to look forward to. Remember that a

man in the prime of years has an appetite like a wolf; and

as he passed a restaurant he could see a round-faced,

holland-shirted, snow-white aproned fellow of a French

chef preparing a dish delicious enough to make it turn to

and eat itself; while, again, as he passed a fruit shop he

could see delicacies looking out of a window for fools to

come and buy them at a hundred roubles apiece. Imagine,

therefore, his position! On the one hand, so to speak,

were salmon and water-melons, while on the other hand

was the bitter fare which passed at a tavern for luncheon.

‘Well,’ he thought to himself, ‘let them do what they like

with me at the Commission, but I intend to go and raise

the whole place, and to tell every blessed functionary

there that I have a mind to do as I choose.’ And in truth

this bold impertinence of a man did have the hardihood

194

Dead Soulsto return to the Commission. ‘What do you want?’ said

the President. ‘Why are you here for the third time? You

have had your orders given you.’ ‘I daresay I have,’ he

retorted, ‘but I am not going to be put off with them. I

want some cutlets to eat, and a bottle of French wine,

and a chance to go and amuse myself at the theatre.’

‘Pardon me,’ said the President. ‘What you really need (if I

may venture to mention it) is a little patience. You have

been given something for food until the Military Commit-

tee shall have met, and then, doubtless, you will receive

your proper reward, seeing that it would not be seemly

that a man who has served his country should be left

destitute. On the other hand, if, in the meanwhile, you

desire to indulge in cutlets and theatre-going, please un-

derstand that we cannot help you, but you must make

your own resources, and try as best you can to help your-

self.’ You can imagine that this went in at one of Kopeikin’s

ears, and out at the other; that it was like shooting peas

at a stone wall. Accordingly he raised a turmoil which

sent the staff flying. One by one, he gave the mob of

secretaries and clerks a real good hammering. ‘You, and

you, and you,’ he said, ‘do not even know your duties. You

are law-breakers.’ Yes, he trod every man of them under

foot. At length the General himself arrived from another

office, and sounded the alarm. What was to be done with

a fellow like Kopeikin? The President saw that strong mea-

sures were imperative. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Since you de-

cline to rest satisfied with what has been given you, and

quietly to await the decision of your case in St. Peters-

burg, I must find you a lodging. Here, constable, remove

the man to gaol.’ Then a constable who had been called to

the door—a constable three ells in height, and armed

with a carbine—a man well fitted to guard a bank—placed

our friend in a police waggon. ‘Well,’ reflected Kopeikin,

‘at least I shan’t have to pay my fare for this ride. That’s

one comfort.’ Again, after he had ridden a little way, he

said to himself: ‘they told me at the Commission to go

and make my own means of enjoying myself. Very good.

I’ll do so.’ However, what became of Kopeikin, and whither

he went, is known to no one. He sank, to use the poet’s

expression, into the waters of Lethe, and his doings now

lie buried in oblivion. But allow me, gentlemen, to piece

195

Gogoltogether the further threads of the story. Not two months

later there appeared in the forests of Riazan a band of

robbers: and of that band the chieftain was none other

than—”

“Allow me,” put in the Head of the Police Department.

“You have said that Kopeikin had lost an arm and a leg;

whereas Chichikov—”

To say anything more was unnecessary. The Postmaster

clapped his hand to his forehead, and publicly called him-

self a fool, though, later, he tried to excuse his mistake

by saying that in England the science of mechanics had

reached such a pitch that wooden legs were manufactured

which would enable the wearer, on touching a spring, to

vanish instantaneously from sight.

Various other theories were then propounded, among

them a theory that Chichikov was Napoleon, escaped from

St. Helena and travelling about the world in disguise. And

if it should be supposed that no such notion could possi-

bly have been broached, let the reader remember that

these events took place not many years after the French

had been driven out of Russia, and that various prophets

had since declared that Napoleon was Antichrist, and would

one day escape from his island prison to exercise universal

sway on earth. Nay, some good folk had even declared the

letters of Napoleon’s name to constitute the Apocalyptic

cipher!

As a last resort, the tchinovniks decided to question

Nozdrev, since not only had the latter been the first to

mention the dead souls, but also he was supposed to

stand on terms of intimacy with Chichikov. Accordingly

the Chief of Police dispatched a note by the hand of a

commissionaire. At the time Nozdrev was engaged on some

very important business—so much so that he had not left

his room for four days, and was receiving his meals through

the window, and no visitors at all. The business referred to

consisted of the marking of several dozen selected cards

in such a way as to permit of his relying upon them as

upon his bosom friend. Naturally he did not like having

his retirement invaded, and at first consigned the

commissionaire to the devil; but as soon as he learnt from

the note that, since a novice at cards was to be the guest

of the Chief of Police that evening, a call at the latter’s

196

Dead Soulshouse might prove not wholly unprofitable he relented,

unlocked the door of his room, threw on the first gar-

ments that came to hand, and set forth. To every ques-

tion put to him by the tchinovniks he answered firmly and

with assurance. Chichikov, he averred, had indeed pur-

chased dead souls, and to the tune of several thousand

roubles. In fact, he (Nozdrev) had himself sold him some,

and still saw no reason why he should not have done so.

Next, to the question of whether or not he considered

Chichikov to be a spy, he replied in the affirmative, and

added that, as long ago as his and Chichikov’s joint

schooldays, the said Chichikov had been known as “The

Informer,” and repeatedly been thrashed by his compan-

ions on that account. Again, to the question of whether

or not Chichikov was a forger of currency notes the depo-

nent, as before, responded in the affirmative, and ap-

pended thereto an anecdote illustrative of Chichikov’s ex-

traordinary dexterity of hand—namely, an anecdote to

that effect that, once upon a time, on learning that two

million roubles worth of counterfeit notes were lying in

Chichikov’s house, the authorities had placed seals upon

the building, and had surrounded it on every side with an

armed guard; whereupon Chichikov had, during the night,

changed each of these seals for a new one, and also so

arranged matters that, when the house was searched, the

forged notes were found to be genuine ones!

Again, to the question of whether or not Chichikov had

schemed to abduct the Governor’s daughter, and also

whether it was true that he, Nozdrev, had undertaken to

aid and abet him in the act, the witness replied that, had

he not undertaken to do so, the affair would never have

come off. At this point the witness pulled himself up, on

realising that he had told a lie which might get him into

trouble; but his tongue was not to be denied—the details

trembling on its tip were too alluring, and he even went

on to cite the name of the village church where the pair

had arranged to be married, that of the priest who had

performed the ceremony, the amount of the fees paid for

the same (seventy-five roubles), and statements (1) that

the priest had refused to solemnise the wedding until

Chichikov had frightened him by threatening to expose

the fact that he (the priest) had married Mikhail, a local

197

Gogolcorn dealer, to his paramour, and (2) that Chichikov had

ordered both a koliaska for the couple’s conveyance and

relays of horses from the post-houses on the road. Nay,

the narrative, as detailed by Nozdrev, even reached the

point of his mentioning certain of the postillions by name!

Next, the tchinovniks sounded him on the question of

Chichikov’s possible identity with Napoleon; but before

long they had reason to regret the step, for Nozdrev re-

sponded with a rambling rigmarole such as bore no resem-

blance to anything possibly conceivable. Finally, the ma-

jority of the audience left the room, and only the Chief of

Police remained to listen (in the hope of gathering some-

thing more); but at last even he found himself forced to

disclaim the speaker with a gesture which said: “The devil

only knows what the fellow is talking about!” and so voiced

the general opinion that it was no use trying to gather

figs of thistles.

Meanwhile Chichikov knew nothing of these events; for,

having contracted a slight chill, coupled with a sore throat,

he had decided to keep his room for three days; during

which time he gargled his throat with milk and fig juice,

consumed the fruit from which the juice had been ex-

tracted, and wore around his neck a poultice of camomile

and camphor. Also, to while away the hours, he made new

and more detailed lists of the souls which he had bought,

perused a work by the Duchesse de la Valliere*, rummaged

in his portmanteau, looked through various articles and

papers which he discovered in his dispatch-box, and found

every one of these occupations tedious. Nor could he un-

derstand why none of his official friends had come to see

him and inquire after his health, seeing that, not long

since, there had been standing in front of the inn the

drozhkis both of the Postmaster, the Public Prosecutor,

and the President of the Council. He wondered and won-

dered, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, fell to

pacing the room. At length he felt better, and his spirits

rose at the prospect of once more going out into the fresh

air; wherefore, having shaved a plentiful growth of hair

from his face, he dressed with such alacrity as almost to

cause a split in his trousers, sprinkled himself with eau-

*One of the mistresses of Louis XIV. of France. In 1680she wrote a book called Reflexions sur la Misericorde deDieu, par une Dame Penitente.

198

Dead Soulsde-Cologne, and wrapping himself in warm clothes, and

turning up the collar of his coat, sallied forth into the

street. His first destination was intended to be the

Governor’s mansion, and, as he walked along, certain

thoughts concerning the Governor’s daughter would keep

whirling through his head, so that almost he forgot where

he was, and took to smiling and cracking jokes to himself.

Arrived at the Governor’s entrance, he was about to

divest himself of his scarf when a Swiss footman greeted

him with the words, “I am forbidden to admit you.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “You do not know me? Look at

me again, and see if you do not recognise me.”

“Of course I recognise you,” the footman replied. “I

have seen you before, but have been ordered to admit any

one else rather than Monsieur Chichikov.”

“Indeed? And why so?”

“Those are my orders, and they must be obeyed,” said

the footman, confronting Chichikov with none of that po-

liteness with which, on former occasions, he had has-

tened to divest our hero of his wrappings. Evidently he

was of opinion that, since the gentry declined to receive

the visitor, the latter must certainly be a rogue.

“I cannot understand it,” said Chichikov to himself. Then

he departed, and made his way to the house of the Presi-

dent of the Council. But so put about was that official by

Chichikov’s entry that he could not utter two consecutive

words—he could only murmur some rubbish which left

both his visitor and himself out of countenance. Chichikov

wondered, as he left the house, what the President’s mut-

tered words could have meant, but failed to make head or

tail of them. Next, he visited, in turn, the Chief of Police,

the Vice-Governor, the Postmaster, and others; but in each

case he either failed to be accorded admittance or was

received so strangely, and with such a measure of con-

straint and conversational awkwardness and absence of

mind and embarrassment, that he began to fear for the

sanity of his hosts. Again and again did he strive to divine

the cause, but could not do so; so he went wandering

aimlessly about the town, without succeeding in making

up his mind whether he or the officials had gone crazy. At

length, in a state bordering upon bewilderment, he re-

turned to the inn—to the establishment whence, that

199

Gogolevery afternoon, he had set forth in such exuberance of

spirits. Feeling the need of something to do, he ordered

tea, and, still marvelling at the strangeness of his posi-

tion, was about to pour out the beverage when the door

opened and Nozdrev made his appearance.

“What says the proverb?” he began. “‘To see a friend,

seven versts is not too long a round to make.’ I happened

to be passing the house, saw a light in your window, and

thought to myself: ‘Now, suppose I were to run up and

pay him a visit? It is unlikely that he will be asleep.’ Ah,

ha! I see tea on your table! Good! Then I will drink a cup

with you, for I had wretched stuff for dinner, and it is

beginning to lie heavy on my stomach. Also, tell your

man to fill me a pipe. Where is your own pipe?”

“I never smoke,” rejoined Chichikov drily.

“Rubbish! As if I did not know what a chimney-pot you

are! What is your man’s name? Hi, Vakhramei! Come here!”

“Petrushka is his name, not Vakhramei.”

“Indeed? But you used to have a man called Vakhramei,

didn’t you?”

“No, never.”

“Oh, well. Then it must be Derebin’s man I am thinking

of. What a lucky fellow that Derebin is! An aunt of his has

gone and quarrelled with her son for marrying a serf woman,

and has left all her property to him, to Derebin. Would

that I had an aunt of that kind to provide against future

contingencies! But why have you been hiding yourself

away? I suppose the reason has been that you go in for

abstruse subjects and are fond of reading” (why Nozdrev

should have drawn these conclusions no one could possi-

bly have said—least of all Chichikov himself). “By the

way, I can tell you of something that would have found

you scope for your satirical vein” (the conclusion as to

Chichikov’s “satirical vein” was, as before, altogether un-

warranted on Nozdrev’s part). “That is to say, you would

have seen merchant Likhachev losing a pile of money at

play. My word, you would have laughed! A fellow with me

named Perependev said: ‘Would that Chichikov had been

here! It would have been the very thing for him!’” (As a

matter of fact, never since the day of his birth had Nozdrev

met any one of the name of Perependev.) “However, my

friend, you must admit that you treated me rather badly

200

Dead Soulsthe day that we played that game of chess; but, as I won

the game, I bear you no malice. A propos, I am just from

the President’s, and ought to tell you that the feeling

against you in the town is very strong, for every one be-

lieves you to be a forger of currency notes. I myself was

sent for and questioned about you, but I stuck up for you

through thick and thin, and told the tchinovniks that I

had been at school with you, and had known your father.

In fact, I gave the fellows a knock or two for themselves.”

“You say that I am believed to be a forger?” said

Chichikov, starting from his seat.

“Yes,” said Nozdrev. “Why have you gone and frightened

everybody as you have done? Some of our folk are almost

out of their minds about it, and declare you to be either

a brigand in disguise or a spy. Yesterday the Public Pros-

ecutor even died of it, and is to be buried to-morrow”

(this was true in so far as that, on the previous day, the

official in question had had a fatal stroke—probably in-

duced by the excitement of the public meeting). “Of course,

I don’t suppose you to be anything of the kind, but, you

see, these fellows are in a blue funk about the new Gover-

nor-General, for they think he will make trouble for them

over your affair. A propos, he is believed to be a man who

puts on airs, and turns up his nose at everything; and if so,

he will get on badly with the dvoriane, seeing that fellows

of that sort need to be humoured a bit. Yes, my word!

Should the new Governor-General shut himself up in his

study, and give no balls, there will be the very devil to pay!

By the way, Chichikov, that is a risky scheme of yours.”

“What scheme to you mean?” Chichikov asked uneasily.

“Why, that scheme of carrying off the Governor’s daugh-

ter. However, to tell the truth, I was expecting something

of the kind. No sooner did I see you and her together at

the ball than I said to myself: ‘Ah, ha! Chichikov is not

here for nothing!’ For my own part, I think you have made

a poor choice, for I can see nothing in her at all. On the

other hand, the niece of a friend of mine named Bikusov—

she is a girl, and no mistake! A regular what you might

call ‘miracle in muslin!’”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Chichikov

with his eyes distended. “How could I carry off the

Governor’s daughter? What on earth do you mean?”

201

Gogol“Come, come! What a secretive fellow you are! My only

object in having come to see you is to lend you a helping

hand in the matter. Look here. On condition that you will

lend me three thousand roubles, I will stand you the cost

of the wedding, the koliaska, and the relays of horses. I

must have the money even if I die for it.”

Throughout Nozdrev’s maunderings Chichikov had been

rubbing his eyes to ascertain whether or not he was dream-

ing. What with the charge of being a forger, the accusa-

tion of having schemed an abduction, the death of the

Public Prosecutor (whatever might have been its cause),

and the advent of a new Governor-General, he felt utterly

dismayed.

“Things having come to their present pass,” he reflected,

“I had better not linger here—I had better be off at once.”

Getting rid of Nozdrev as soon as he could, he sent for

Selifan, and ordered him to be up at daybreak, in order to

clean the britchka and to have everything ready for a start

at six o’clock. Yet, though Selifan replied, “Very well, Paul

Ivanovitch,” he hesitated awhile by the door. Next,

Chichikov bid Petrushka get out the dusty portmanteau

from under the bed, and then set to work to cram into it,

pell-mell, socks, shirts, collars (both clean and dirty),

boot trees, a calendar, and a variety of other articles.

Everything went into the receptacle just as it came to

hand, since his one object was to obviate any possible

delay in the morning’s departure. Meanwhile the reluctant

Selifan slowly, very slowly, left the room, as slowly de-

scended the staircase (on each separate step of which he

left a muddy foot-print), and, finally, halted to scratch

his head. What that scratching may have meant no one

could say; for, with the Russian populace, such a scratch-

ing may mean any one of a hundred things.

202

Dead SoulsCHAPTER XI

Nevertheless events did not turn out as Chichikov had

intended they should. In the first place, he overslept him-

self. That was check number one. In the second place, on

his rising and inquiring whether the britchka had been

harnessed and everything got ready, he was informed that

neither of those two things had been done. That was check

number two. Beside himself with rage, he prepared to

give Selifan the wigging of his life, and, meanwhile, waited

impatiently to hear what the delinquent had got to say in

his defence. It goes without saying that when Selifan made

his appearance in the doorway he had only the usual ex-

cuses to offer—the sort of excuses usually offered by ser-

vants when a hasty departure has become imperatively

necessary.

“Paul Ivanovitch,” he said, “the horses require shoe-

ing.”

“Blockhead!” exclaimed Chichikov. “Why did you not tell

me of that before, you damned fool? Was there not time

enough for them to be shod?”

“Yes, I suppose there was,” agreed Selifan. “Also one of

the wheels is in want of a new tyre, for the roads are so

rough that the old tyre is worn through. Also, the body of

the britchka is so rickety that probably it will not last

more than a couple of stages.”

“Rascal!” shouted Chichikov, clenching his fists and ap-

proaching Selifan in such a manner that, fearing to re-

ceive a blow, the man backed and dodged aside. “Do you

mean to ruin me, and to break all our bones on the road,

you cursed idiot? For these three weeks past you have

been doing nothing at all; yet now, at the last moment,

you come here stammering and playing the fool! Do you

think I keep you just to eat and to drive yourself about?

You must have known of this before? Did you, or did you

not, know it? Answer me at once.”

“Yes, I did know it,” replied Selifan, hanging his head.

“Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”

Selifan had no reply immediately ready, so continued to

hang his head while quietly saying to himself: “See how

well I have managed things! I knew what was the matter,

yet I did not say.”

203

Gogol“And now,” continued Chichikov, “go you at once and

fetch a blacksmith. Tell him that everything must be put

right within two hours at the most. Do you hear? If that

should not be done, I, I—I will give you the best flog-

ging that ever you had in your life.” Truly Chichikov was

almost beside himself with fury.

Turning towards the door, as though for the purpose of

going and carrying out his orders, Selifan halted and added:

“That skewbald, barin—you might think it well to sell

him, seeing that he is nothing but a rascal? A horse like

that is more of a hindrance than a help.”

“What? Do you expect me to go now to the market-

place and sell him?”

“Well, Paul Ivanovitch, he is good for nothing but show,

since by nature he is a most cunning beast. Never in my

life have I seen such a horse.”

“Fool! Whenever I may wish to sell him I shall sell him.

Meanwhile, don’t you trouble your head about what doesn’t

concern you, but go and fetch a blacksmith, and see that

everything is put right within two hours. Otherwise I will

take the very hair off your head, and beat you till you

haven’t a face left. Be off! Hurry!”

Selifan departed, and Chichikov, his ill-humour vented,

threw down upon the floor the poignard which he always

took with him as a means of instilling respect into whom-

soever it might concern, and spent the next quarter of an

hour in disputing with a couple of blacksmiths—men who,

as usual, were rascals of the type which, on perceiving

that something is wanted in a hurry, at once multiplies its

terms for providing the same. Indeed, for all Chichikov’s

storming and raging as he dubbed the fellows robbers and

extortioners and thieves, he could make no impression

upon the pair, since, true to their character, they declined

to abate their prices, and, even when they had begun

their work, spent upon it, not two hours, but five and a

half. Meanwhile he had the satisfaction of experiencing

that delightful time with which all travellers are famil-

iar—namely, the time during which one sits in a room

where, except for a litter of string, waste paper, and so

forth, everything else has been packed. But to all things

there comes an end, and there arrived also the long-awaited

moment when the britchka had received the luggage, the

204

Dead Soulsfaulty wheel had been fitted with a new tyre, the horses

had been re-shod, and the predatory blacksmiths had de-

parted with their gains. “Thank God!” thought Chichikov

as the britchka rolled out of the gates of the inn, and the

vehicle began to jolt over the cobblestones. Yet a feeling

which he could not altogether have defined filled his breast

as he gazed upon the houses and the streets and the

garden walls which he might never see again. Presently,

on turning a corner, the britchka was brought to a halt

through the fact that along the street there was filing a

seemingly endless funeral procession. Leaning forward in

his britchka, Chichikov asked Petrushka whose obsequies

the procession represented, and was told that they repre-

sented those of the Public Prosecutor. Disagreeably

shocked, our hero hastened to raise the hood of the ve-

hicle, to draw the curtains across the windows, and to

lean back into a corner. While the britchka remained thus

halted Selifan and Petrushka, their caps doffed, sat watch-

ing the progress of the cortege, after they had received

strict instructions not to greet any fellow-servant whom

they might recognise. Behind the hearse walked the whole

body of tchinovniks, bare-headed; and though, for a mo-

ment or two, Chichikov feared that some of their number

might discern him in his britchka, he need not have dis-

turbed himself, since their attention was otherwise en-

gaged. In fact, they were not even exchanging the small

talk customary among members of such processions, but

thinking exclusively of their own affairs, of the advent of

the new Governor-General, and of the probable manner in

which he would take up the reins of administration. Next

came a number of carriages, from the windows of which

peered the ladies in mourning toilets. Yet the movements

of their hands and lips made it evident that they were in-

dulging in animated conversation—probably about the

Governor-General, the balls which he might be expected to

give, and their own eternal fripperies and gewgaws. Lastly

came a few empty drozhkis. As soon as the latter had passed,

our hero was able to continue on his way. Throwing back

the hood of the britchka, he said to himself:

“Ah, good friend, you have lived your life, and now it is

over! In the newspapers they will say of you that you died

regretted not only by your subordinates, but also by hu-

205

Gogolmanity at large, as well as that, a respected citizen, a

kind father, and a husband beyond reproach, you went to

your grave amid the tears of your widow and orphans.

Yet, should those journals be put to it to name any par-

ticular circumstance which justified this eulogy of you,

they would be forced to fall back upon the fact that you

grew a pair of exceptionally thick eyebrows!”

With that Chichikov bid Selifan quicken his pace, and

concluded: “After all, it is as well that I encountered the

procession, for they say that to meet a funeral is lucky.”

Presently the britchka turned into some less frequented

streets, lines of wooden fencing of the kind which mark

the outskirts of a town began to file by, the cobblestones

came to an end, the macadam of the highroad succeeded

to them, and once more there began on either side of the

turnpike a procession of verst stones, road menders, and

grey villages; inns with samovars and peasant women and

landlords who came running out of yards with seivefuls of

oats; pedestrians in worn shoes which, it might be, had

covered eight hundred versts; little towns, bright with

booths for the sale of flour in barrels, boots, small loaves,

and other trifles; heaps of slag; much repaired bridges;

expanses of field to right and to left; stout landowners; a

mounted soldier bearing a green, iron-clamped box in-

scribed: “The —th Battery of Artillery”; long strips of

freshly-tilled earth which gleamed green, yellow, and black

on the face of the countryside. With it mingled long-

drawn singing, glimpses of elm-tops amid mist, the far-

off notes of bells, endless clouds of rocks, and the illimit-

able line of the horizon.

Ah, Russia, Russia, from my beautiful home in a strange

land I can still see you! In you everything is poor and

disordered and unhomely; in you the eye is neither cheered

nor dismayed by temerities of nature which a yet more

temerarious art has conquered; in you one beholds no

cities with lofty, many-windowed mansions, lofty as crags,

no picturesque trees, no ivy-clad ruins, no waterfalls with

their everlasting spray and roar, no beetling precipices

which confuse the brain with their stony immensity, no

vistas of vines and ivy and millions of wild roses and age-

less lines of blue hills which look almost unreal against

the clear, silvery background of the sky. In you everything

206

Dead Soulsis flat and open; your towns project like points or signals

from smooth levels of plain, and nothing whatsoever en-

chants or deludes the eye. Yet what secret, what invin-

cible force draws me to you? Why does there ceaselessly

echo and re-echo in my ears the sad song which hovers

throughout the length and the breadth of your borders?

What is the burden of that song? Why does it wail and sob

and catch at my heart? What say the notes which thus

painfully caress and embrace my soul, and flit, uttering

their lamentations, around me? What is it you seek of me,

O Russia? What is the hidden bond which subsists be-

tween us? Why do you regard me as you do? Why does

everything within you turn upon me eyes full of yearning?

Even at this moment, as I stand dumbly, fixedly, per-

plexedly contemplating your vastness, a menacing cloud,

charged with gathering rain, seems to overshadow my head.

What is it that your boundless expanses presage? Do they

not presage that one day there will arise in you ideas as

boundless as yourself? Do they not presage that one day

you too will know no limits? Do they not presage that one

day, when again you shall have room for their exploits,

there will spring to life the heroes of old? How the power

of your immensity enfolds me, and reverberates through

all my being with a wild, strange spell, and flashes in my

eyes with an almost supernatural radiance! Yes, a strange,

brilliant, unearthly vista indeed do you disclose, O Russia,

country of mine!

“Stop, stop, you fool!” shouted Chichikov to Selifan;

and even as he spoke a troika, bound on Government busi-

ness, came chattering by, and disappeared in a cloud of

dust. To Chichikov’s curses at Selifan for not having drawn

out of the way with more alacrity a rural constable with

moustaches of the length of an arshin added his quota.

What a curious and attractive, yet also what an unreal,

fascination the term “highway” connotes! And how inter-

esting for its own sake is a highway! Should the day be a

fine one (though chilly) in mellowing autumn, press closer

your travelling cloak, and draw down your cap over your

ears, and snuggle cosily, comfortably into a corner of the

britchka before a last shiver shall course through your

limbs, and the ensuing warmth shall put to flight the

autumnal cold and damp. As the horses gallop on their

207

Gogolway, how delightfully will drowsiness come stealing upon

you, and make your eyelids droop! For a while, through

your somnolence, you will continue to hear the hard breath-

ing of the team and the rumbling of the wheels; but at

length, sinking back into your corner, you will relapse

into the stage of snoring. And when you awake—behold!

you will find that five stages have slipped away, and that

the moon is shining, and that you have reached a strange

town of churches and old wooden cupolas and blackened

spires and white, half-timbered houses! And as the moon-

light glints hither and thither, almost you will believe

that the walls and the streets and the pavements of the

place are spread with sheets—sheets shot with coal-black

shadows which make the wooden roofs look all the brighter

under the slanting beams of the pale luminary. Nowhere is

a soul to be seen, for every one is plunged in slumber. Yet

no. In a solitary window a light is flickering where some

good burgher is mending his boots, or a baker drawing a

batch of dough. O night and powers of heaven, how per-

fect is the blackness of your infinite vault—how lofty,

how remote its inaccessible depths where it lies spread in

an intangible, yet audible, silence! Freshly does the lulling

breath of night blow in your face, until once more you

relapse into snoring oblivion, and your poor neighbour

turns angrily in his corner as he begins to be conscious of

your weight. Then again you awake, but this time to find

yourself confronted with only fields and steppes. Every-

where in the ascendant is the desolation of space. But

suddenly the ciphers on a verst stone leap to the eye!

Morning is rising, and on the chill, gradually paling line of

the horizon you can see gleaming a faint gold streak. The

wind freshens and grows keener, and you snuggle closer in

your cloak; yet how glorious is that freshness, and how

marvellous the sleep in which once again you become

enfolded! A jolt!—and for the last time you return to

consciousness. By now the sun is high in the heavens, and

you hear a voice cry “gently, gently!” as a farm waggon

issues from a by-road. Below, enclosed within an ample

dike, stretches a sheet of water which glistens like copper

in the sunlight. Beyond, on the side of a slope, lie some

scattered peasants’ huts, a manor house, and, flanking

the latter, a village church with its cross flashing like a

208

Dead Soulsstar. There also comes wafted to your ear the sound of

peasants’ laughter, while in your inner man you are be-

coming conscious of an appetite which is not to be with-

stood.

Oh long-drawn highway, how excellent you are! How

often have I in weariness and despondency set forth upon

your length, and found in you salvation and rest! How

often, as I followed your leading, have I been visited with

wonderful thoughts and poetic dreams and curious, wild

impressions!

At this moment our friend Chichikov also was experienc-

ing visions of a not wholly prosaic nature. Let us peep

into his soul and share them. At first he remained uncon-

scious of anything whatsoever, for he was too much en-

gaged in making sure that he was really clear of the town;

but as soon as he saw that it had completely disappeared,

with its mills and factories and other urban appurtenances,

and that even the steeples of the white stone churches

had sunk below the horizon, he turned his attention to

the road, and the town of N. vanished from his thoughts

as completely as though he had not seen it since child-

hood. Again, in its turn, the road ceased to interest him,

and he began to close his eyes and to loll his head against

the cushions. Of this let the author take advantage, in

order to speak at length concerning his hero; since hith-

erto he (the author) has been prevented from so doing by

Nozdrev and balls and ladies and local intrigues—by those

thousand trifles which seem trifles only when they are

introduced into a book, but which, in life, figure as affairs

of importance. Let us lay them aside, and betake our-

selves to business.

Whether the character whom I have selected for my

hero has pleased my readers is, of course, exceedingly

doubtful. At all events the ladies will have failed to ap-

prove him for the fair sex demands in a hero perfection,

and, should there be the least mental or physical stain on

him—well, woe betide! Yes, no matter how profoundly

the author may probe that hero’s soul, no matter how

clearly he may portray his figure as in a mirror, he will be

given no credit for the achievement. Indeed, Chichikov’s

very stoutness and plenitude of years may have militated

against him, for never is a hero pardoned for the former,

209

Gogoland the majority of ladies will, in such case, turn away,

and mutter to themselves: “Phew! What a beast!” Yes, the

author is well aware of this. Yet, though he could not, to

save his life, take a person of virtue for his principal char-

acter, it may be that this story contains themes never

before selected, and that in it there projects the whole

boundless wealth of Russian psychology; that it portrays,

as well as Chichikov, the peasant who is gifted with the

virtues which God has sent him, and the marvellous maiden

of Russia who has not her like in all the world for her

beautiful feminine spirituality, the roots of which lie bur-

ied in noble aspirations and boundless self-denial. In fact,

compared with these types, the virtuous of other races

seem lifeless, as does an inanimate volume when com-

pared with the living word. Yes, each time that there arises

in Russia a movement of thought, it becomes clear that

the movement sinks deep into the Slavonic nature where

it would but have skimmed the surface of other nations.—

But why am I talking like this? Whither am I tending? It

is indeed shameful that an author who long ago reached

man’s estate, and was brought up to a course of severe

introspection and sober, solitary self-enlightenment, should

give way to such jejune wandering from the point. To

everything its proper time and place and turn. As I was

saying, it does not lie in me to take a virtuous character

for my hero: and I will tell you why. It is because it is high

time that a rest were given to the “poor, but virtuous”

individual; it is because the phrase “a man of worth” has

grown into a by-word; it is because the “man of worth”

has become converted into a horse, and there is not a

writer but rides him and flogs him, in and out of season;

it is because the “man of worth” has been starved until he

has not a shred of his virtue left, and all that remains of

his body is but the ribs and the hide; it is because the

“man of worth” is for ever being smuggled upon the scene;

it is because the “man of worth” has at length forfeited

every one’s respect. For these reasons do I reaffirm that it

is high time to yoke a rascal to the shafts. Let us yoke

that rascal.

Our hero’s beginnings were both modest and obscure.

True, his parents were dvoriane, but he in no way resembled

them. At all events, a short, squab female relative who

210

Dead Soulswas present at his birth exclaimed as she lifted up the

baby: “He is altogether different from what I had ex-

pected him to be. He ought to have taken after his ma-

ternal grandmother, whereas he has been born, as the

proverb has it, ‘like not father nor mother, but like a chance

passer-by.’” Thus from the first life regarded the little

Chichikov with sour distaste, and as through a dim, frost-

encrusted window. A tiny room with diminutive casements

which were never opened, summer or winter; an invalid

father in a dressing-gown lined with lambskin, and with

an ailing foot swathed in bandages—a man who was con-

tinually drawing deep breaths, and walking up and down

the room, and spitting into a sandbox; a period of per-

petually sitting on a bench with pen in hand and ink on

lips and fingers; a period of being eternally confronted

with the copy-book maxim, “Never tell a lie, but obey

your superiors, and cherish virtue in your heart;” an ever-

lasting scraping and shuffling of slippers up and down the

room; a period of continually hearing a well-known, stri-

dent voice exclaim: “So you have been playing the fool

again!” at times when the child, weary of the mortal mo-

notony of his task, had added a superfluous embellish-

ment to his copy; a period of experiencing the ever-famil-

iar, but ever-unpleasant, sensation which ensued upon

those words as the boy’s ear was painfully twisted be-

tween two long fingers bent backwards at the tips—such

is the miserable picture of that youth of which, in later

life, Chichikov preserved but the faintest of memories!

But in this world everything is liable to swift and sudden

change; and, one day in early spring, when the rivers had

melted, the father set forth with his little son in a

teliezshka* drawn by a sorrel steed of the kind known to

horsy folk as a soroka, and having as coachman the di-

minutive hunchback who, father of the only serf family

belonging to the elder Chichikov, served as general facto-

tum in the Chichikov establishment. For a day and a half

the soroka conveyed them on their way; during which

time they spent the night at a roadside inn, crossed a

river, dined off cold pie and roast mutton, and eventually

arrived at the county town. To the lad the streets pre-

sented a spectacle of unwonted brilliancy, and he gaped

*Four-wheeled open carriage.

211

Gogolwith amazement. Turning into a side alley wherein the

mire necessitated both the most strenuous exertions on

the soroka’s part and the most vigorous castigation on

the part of the driver and the barin, the conveyance even-

tually reached the gates of a courtyard which, combined

with a small fruit garden containing various bushes, a

couple of apple-trees in blossom, and a mean, dirty little

shed, constituted the premises attached to an antiquated-

looking villa. Here there lived a relative of the Chichikovs,

a wizened old lady who went to market in person and

dried her stockings at the samovar. On seeing the boy, she

patted his cheek and expressed satisfaction at his phy-

sique; whereupon the fact became disclosed that here he

was to abide for a while, for the purpose of attending a

local school. After a night’s rest his father prepared to

betake himself homeward again; but no tears marked the

parting between him and his son, he merely gave the lad

a copper or two and (a far more important thing) the

following injunctions. “See here, my boy. Do your lessons

well, do not idle or play the fool, and above all things, see

that you please your teachers. So long as you observe

these rules you will make progress, and surpass your fel-

lows, even if God shall have denied you brains, and you

should fail in your studies. Also, do not consort overmuch

with your comrades, for they will do you no good; but,

should you do so, then make friends with the richer of

them, since one day they may be useful to you. Also,

never entertain or treat any one, but see that every one

entertains and treats you. Lastly, and above all else, keep

and save your every kopeck. To save money is the most

important thing in life. Always a friend or a comrade may

fail you, and be the first to desert you in a time of adver-

sity; but never will a kopeck fail you, whatever may be

your plight. Nothing in the world cannot be done, cannot

be attained, with the aid of money.” These injunctions

given, the father embraced his son, and set forth on his

return; and though the son never again beheld his parent,

the latter’s words and precepts sank deep into the little

Chichikov’s soul.

The next day young Pavlushka made his first attendance

at school. But no special aptitude in any branch of learn-

ing did he display. Rather, his distinguishing characteris-

212

Dead Soulstics were diligence and neatness. On the other hand, he

developed great intelligence as regards the PRACTICAL

aspect of life. In a trice he divined and comprehended

how things ought to be worked, and, from that time forth,

bore himself towards his school-fellows in such a way that,

though they frequently gave him presents, he not only

never returned the compliment, but even on occasions

pocketed the gifts for the mere purpose of selling them

again. Also, boy though he was, he acquired the art of

self-denial. Of the trifle which his father had given him on

parting he spent not a kopeck, but, the same year, actu-

ally added to his little store by fashioning a bullfinch of

wax, painting it, and selling the same at a handsome profit.

Next, as time went on, he engaged in other speculations—

in particular, in the scheme of buying up eatables, taking

his seat in class beside boys who had plenty of pocket-

money, and, as soon as such opulent individuals showed

signs of failing attention (and, therefore, of growing ap-

petite), tendering them, from beneath the desk, a roll of

pudding or a piece of gingerbread, and charging accord-

ing to degree of appetite and size of portion. He also

spent a couple of months in training a mouse, which he

kept confined in a little wooden cage in his bedroom. At

length, when the training had reached the point that, at

the several words of command, the mouse would stand

upon its hind legs, lie down, and get up again, he sold the

creature for a respectable sum. Thus, in time, his gains

attained the amount of five roubles; whereupon he made

himself a purse and then started to fill a second recep-

tacle of the kind. Still more studied was his attitude to-

wards the authorities. No one could sit more quietly in his

place on the bench than he. In the same connection it

may be remarked that his teacher was a man who, above

all things, loved peace and good behaviour, and simply

could not abide clever, witty boys, since he suspected

them of laughing at him. Consequently any lad who had

once attracted the master’s attention with a manifesta-

tion of intelligence needed but to shuffle in his place, or

unintentionally to twitch an eyebrow, for the said master

at once to burst into a rage, to turn the supposed of-

fender out of the room, and to visit him with unmerciful

punishment. “Ah, my fine fellow,” he would say, “I’ll cure

213

Gogolyou of your impudence and want of respect! I know you

through and through far better than you know yourself,

and will take good care that you have to go down upon

your knees and curb your appetite.” Whereupon the

wretched lad would, for no cause of which he was aware,

be forced to wear out his breeches on the floor and go

hungry for days. “Talents and gifts,” the schoolmaster

would declare, “are so much rubbish. I respect only good

behaviour, and shall award full marks to those who con-

duct themselves properly, even if they fail to learn a single

letter of their alphabet: whereas to those in whom I may

perceive a tendency to jocularity I shall award nothing,

even though they should outdo Solon himself.” For the

same reason he had no great love of the author Krylov, in

that the latter says in one of his Fables: “In my opinion,

the more one sings, the better one works;” and often the

pedagogue would relate how, in a former school of his,

the silence had been such that a fly could be heard buzz-

ing on the wing, and for the space of a whole year not a

single pupil sneezed or coughed in class, and so complete

was the absence of all sound that no one could have told

that there was a soul in the place. Of this mentor young

Chichikov speedily appraised the mentality; wherefore he

fashioned his behaviour to correspond with it. Not an

eyelid, not an eyebrow, would he stir during school hours,

howsoever many pinches he might receive from behind;

and only when the bell rang would he run to anticipate his

fellows in handing the master the three-cornered cap which

that dignitary customarily sported, and then to be the

first to leave the class-room, and contrive to meet the

master not less than two or three times as the latter

walked homeward, in order that, on each occasion, he

might doff his cap. And the scheme proved entirely suc-

cessful. Throughout the period of his attendance at school

he was held in high favour, and, on leaving the establish-

ment, received full marks for every subject, as well as a

diploma and a book inscribed (in gilt letters) “For Exem-

plary Diligence and the Perfection of Good Conduct.” By

this time he had grown into a fairly good-looking youth

of the age when the chin first calls for a razor; and at

about the same period his father died, leaving behind him,

as his estate, four waistcoats completely worn out, two

214

Dead Soulsancient frockcoats, and a small sum of money. Apparently

he had been skilled only in recommending the saving of

kopecks—not in actually practising the art. Upon that

Chichikov sold the old house and its little parcel of land

for a thousand roubles, and removed, with his one serf

and the serf’s family, to the capital, where he set about

organising a new establishment and entering the Civil Ser-

vice. Simultaneously with his doing so, his old school-

master lost (through stupidity or otherwise) the estab-

lishment over which he had hitherto presided, and in which

he had set so much store by silence and good behaviour.

Grief drove him to drink, and when nothing was left, even

for that purpose, he retired—ill, helpless, and starving—

into a broken-down, cheerless hovel. But certain of his

former pupils—the same clever, witty lads whom he had

once been wont to accuse of impertinence and evil con-

duct generally—heard of his pitiable plight, and collected

for him what money they could, even to the point of

selling their own necessaries. Only Chichikov, when ap-

pealed to, pleaded inability, and compromised with a con-

tribution of a single piatak*: which his old schoolfellows

straightway returned him—full in the face, and accompa-

nied with a shout of “Oh, you skinflint!” As for the poor

schoolmaster, when he heard what his former pupils had

done, he buried his face in his hands, and the tears gushed

from his failing eyes as from those of a helpless infant.

“God has brought you but to weep over my death-bed,”

he murmured feebly; and added with a profound sigh, on

hearing of Chichikov’s conduct: “Ah, Pavlushka, how a

human being may become changed! Once you were a good

lad, and gave me no trouble; but now you are become

proud indeed!”

Yet let it not be inferred from this that our hero’s char-

acter had grown so blase and hard, or his conscience so

blunted, as to preclude his experiencing a particle of sym-

pathy or compassion. As a matter of fact, he was capable

both of the one and the other, and would have been glad

to assist his old teacher had no great sum been required,

or had he not been called upon to touch the fund which

he had decided should remain intact. In other words, the

father’s injunction, “Guard and save every kopeck,” had

become a hard and fast rule of the son’s. Yet the youth*Silver five kopeck piece.

215

Gogolhad no particular attachment to money for money’s sake;

he was not possessed with the true instinct for hoarding

and niggardliness. Rather, before his eyes there floated

ever a vision of life and its amenities and advantages—a

vision of carriages and an elegantly furnished house and

recherche dinners; and it was in the hope that some day

he might attain these things that he saved every kopeck

and, meanwhile, stinted both himself and others. When-

ever a rich man passed him by in a splendid drozhki drawn

by swift and handsomely-caparisoned horses, he would

halt as though deep in thought, and say to himself, like a

man awakening from a long sleep: “That gentleman must

have been a financier, he has so little hair on his brow.” In

short, everything connected with wealth and plenty pro-

duced upon him an ineffaceable impression. Even when he

left school he took no holiday, so strong in him was the

desire to get to work and enter the Civil Service. Yet, for

all the encomiums contained in his diploma, he had much

ado to procure a nomination to a Government Depart-

ment; and only after a long time was a minor post found

for him, at a salary of thirty or fourty roubles a year.

Nevertheless, wretched though this appointment was, he

determined, by strict attention to business, to overcome

all obstacles, and to win success. And, indeed, the self-

denial, the patience, and the economy which he displayed

were remarkable. From early morn until late at night he

would, with indefatigable zeal of body and mind, remain

immersed in his sordid task of copying official documents—

never going home, snatching what sleep he could on tables

in the building, and dining with the watchman on duty.

Yet all the while he contrived to remain clean and neat, to

preserve a cheerful expression of countenance, and even

to cultivate a certain elegance of movement. In passing,

it may be remarked that his fellow tchinovniks were a

peculiarly plain, unsightly lot, some of them having faces

like badly baked bread, swollen cheeks, receding chins,

and cracked and blistered upper lips. Indeed, not a man

of them was handsome. Also, their tone of voice always

contained a note of sullenness, as though they had a mind

to knock some one on the head; and by their frequent

sacrifices to Bacchus they showed that even yet there

remains in the Slavonic nature a certain element of pa-

216

Dead Soulsganism. Nay, the Director’s room itself they would invade

while still licking their lips, and since their breath was not

over-aromatic, the atmosphere of the room grew not over-

pleasant. Naturally, among such an official staff a man

like Chichikov could not fail to attract attention and re-

mark, since in everything—in cheerfulness of demeanour,

in suavity of voice, and in complete neglect of the use of

strong potions—he was the absolute antithesis of his com-

panions. Yet his path was not an easy one to tread, for

over him he had the misfortune to have placed in author-

ity a Chief Clerk who was a graven image of elderly insen-

sibility and inertia. Always the same, always unapproach-

able, this functionary could never in his life have smiled

or asked civilly after an acquaintance’s health. Nor had

any one ever seen him a whit different in the street or at

his own home from what he was in the office, or showing

the least interest in anything whatever, or getting drunk

and relapsing into jollity in his cups, or indulging in that

species of wild gaiety which, when intoxicated, even a

burglar affects. No, not a particle of this was there in

him. Nor, for that matter, was there in him a particle of

anything at all, whether good or bad: which complete

negativeness of character produced rather a strange ef-

fect. In the same way, his wizened, marble-like features

reminded one of nothing in particular, so primly propor-

tioned were they. Only the numerous pockmarks and

dimples with which they were pitted placed him among

the number of those over whose faces, to quote the popular

saying, “The Devil has walked by night to grind peas.” In

short, it would seem that no human agency could have

approached such a man and gained his goodwill. Yet

Chichikov made the effort. As a first step, he took to

consulting the other’s convenience in all manner of insig-

nificant trifles—to cleaning his pens carefully, and, when

they had been prepared exactly to the Chief Clerk’s liking,

laying them ready at his elbow; to dusting and sweeping

from his table all superfluous sand and tobacco ash; to

procuring a new mat for his inkstand; to looking for his

hat—the meanest-looking hat that ever the world be-

held—and having it ready for him at the exact moment

when business came to an end; to brushing his back if it

happened to become smeared with whitewash from a wall.

217

GogolYet all this passed as unnoticed as though it had never

been done. Finally, Chichikov sniffed into his superior’s

family and domestic life, and learnt that he possessed a

grown-up daughter on whose face also there had taken

place a nocturnal, diabolical grinding of peas. Here was a

quarter whence a fresh attack might be delivered! After

ascertaining what church the daughter attended on Sun-

days, our hero took to contriving to meet her in a neat

suit and a well-starched dickey: and soon the scheme be-

gan to work. The surly Chief Clerk wavered for a while;

then ended by inviting Chichikov to tea. Nor could any

man in the office have told you how it came about that

before long Chichikov had removed to the Chief Clerk’s

house, and become a person necessary—indeed indispens-

able—to the household, seeing that he bought the flour

and the sugar, treated the daughter as his betrothed, called

the Chief Clerk “Papenka,” and occasionally kissed

“Papenka’s” hand. In fact, every one at the office sup-

posed that, at the end of February (i.e. before the begin-

ning of Lent) there would take place a wedding. Nay, the

surly father even began to agitate with the authorities on

Chichikov’s behalf, and so enabled our hero, on a vacancy

occurring, to attain the stool of a Chief Clerk. Apparently

this marked the consummation of Chichikov’s relations

with his host, for he hastened stealthily to pack his trunk

and, the next day, figured in a fresh lodging. Also, he

ceased to call the Chief Clerk “Papenka,” or to kiss his

hand; and the matter of the wedding came to as abrupt a

termination as though it had never been mooted. Yet also

he never failed to press his late host’s hand, whenever he

met him, and to invite him to tea; while, on the other

hand, for all his immobility and dry indifference, the Chief

Clerk never failed to shake his head with a muttered, “Ah,

my fine fellow, you have grown too proud, you have grown

too proud.”

The foregoing constituted the most difficult step that

our hero had to negotiate. Thereafter things came with

greater ease and swifter success. Everywhere he attracted

notice, for he developed within himself everything neces-

sary for this world—namely, charm of manner and bear-

ing, and great diligence in business matters. Armed with

these resources, he next obtained promotion to what is

218

Dead Soulsknown as “a fat post,” and used it to the best advantage;

and even though, at that period, strict inquiry had begun

to be made into the whole subject of bribes, such inquiry

failed to alarm him—nay, he actually turned it to account

and thereby manifested the Russian resourcefulness which

never fails to attain its zenith where extortion is con-

cerned. His method of working was the following. As soon

as a petitioner or a suitor put his hand into his pocket, to

extract thence the necessary letters of recommendation

for signature, Chichikov would smilingly exclaim as he

detained his interlocutor’s hand: “No, no! Surely you do

not think that I—? But no, no! It is our duty, it is our

obligation, and we do not require rewards for doing our

work properly. So far as your matter is concerned, you

may rest easy. Everything shall be carried through to-

morrow. But may I have your address? There is no need to

trouble yourself, seeing that the documents can easily be

brought to you at your residence.” Upon which the de-

lighted suitor would return home in raptures, thinking:

“Here, at long last, is the sort of man so badly needed. A

man of that kind is a jewel beyond price.” Yet for a day,

for two days—nay, even for three—the suitor would wait

in vain so far as any messengers with documents were

concerned. Then he would repair to the office—to find

that his business had not so much as been entered upon!

Lastly, he would confront the “jewel beyond price.” “Oh,

pardon me, pardon me!” Chichikov would exclaim in the

politest of tones as he seized and grasped the visitor’s

hands. “The truth is that we have such a quantity of busi-

ness on hand! But the matter shall be put through to-

morrow, and in the meanwhile I am most sorry about it.”

And with this would go the most fascinating of gestures.

Yet neither on the morrow, nor on the day following, nor

on the third would documents arrive at the suitor’s abode.

Upon that he would take thought as to whether some-

thing more ought not to have been done; and, sure enough,

on his making inquiry, he would be informed that “some-

thing will have to be given to the copyists.” “Well, there

can be no harm in that,” he would reply. “As a matter of

fact, I have ready a tchetvertak[3] or two.” “Oh, no, no,”

the answer would come. “Not a tchetvertak per copyist,

*A silver quarter rouble.

219

Gogolbut a rouble, is the fee.” “What? A rouble per copyist?”

“Certainly. What is there to grumble at in that? Of the

money the copyists will receive a tchetvertak apiece, and

the rest will go to the Government.” Upon that the disil-

lusioned suitor would fly out upon the new order of things

brought about by the inquiry into illicit fees, and curse

both the tchinovniks and their uppish, insolent behaviour.

“Once upon a time,” would the suitor lament, “one did

know what to do. Once one had tipped the Director a

bank-note, one’s affair was, so to speak, in the hat. But

now one has to pay a rouble per copyist after waiting a

week because otherwise it was impossible to guess how

the wind might set! The devil fly away with all ‘disinter-

ested’ and ‘trustworthy’ tchinovniks!” And certainly the

aggrieved suitor had reason to grumble, seeing that, now

that bribe-takers had ceased to exist, and Directors had

uniformly become men of honour and integrity, secretar-

ies and clerks ought not with impunity to have continued

their thievish ways. In time there opened out to Chichikov

a still wider field, for a Commission was appointed to

supervise the erection of a Government building, and, on

his being nominated to that body, he proved himself one

of its most active members. The Commission got to work

without delay, but for a space of six years had some trouble

with the building in question. Either the climate hindered

operations or the materials used were of the kind which

prevents official edifices from ever rising higher than the

basement. But, meanwhile, other quarters of the town

saw arise, for each member of the Commission, a hand-

some house of the non-official style of architecture. Clearly

the foundation afforded by the soil of those parts was

better than that where the Government building was still

engaged in hanging fire! Likewise the members of the Com-

mission began to look exceedingly prosperous, and to blos-

som out into family life; and, for the first time in his

existence, even Chichikov also departed from the iron laws

of his self-imposed restraint and inexorable self-denial,

and so far mitigated his heretofore asceticism as to show

himself a man not averse to those amenities which, dur-

ing his youth, he had been capable of renouncing. That is

to say, certain superfluities began to make their appear-

ance in his establishment. He engaged a good cook, took

220

Dead Soulsto wearing linen shirts, bought for himself cloth of a pat-

tern worn by no one else in the province, figured in checks

shot with the brightest of reds and browns, fitted himself

out with two splendid horses (which he drove with a single

pair of reins, added to a ring attachment for the trace

horse), developed a habit of washing with a sponge dipped

in eau-de-Cologne, and invested in soaps of the most ex-

pensive quality, in order to communicate to his skin a

more elegant polish.

But suddenly there appeared upon the scene a new Di-

rector—a military man, and a martinet as regarded his

hostility to bribe-takers and anything which might be called

irregular. On the very day after his arrival he struck fear

into every breast by calling for accounts, discovering hosts

of deficits and missing sums, and directing his attention

to the aforesaid fine houses of civilian architecture. Upon

that there ensued a complete reshuffling. Tchinovniks were

retired wholesale, and the houses were sequestrated to

the Government, or else converted into various pious in-

stitutions and schools for soldiers’ children. Thus the whole

fabric, and especially Chichikov, came crashing to the

ground. Particularly did our hero’s agreeable face displease

the new Director. Why that was so it is impossible to say,

but frequently, in cases of the kind, no reason exists.

However, the Director conceived a mortal dislike to him,

and also extended that enmity to the whole of Chichikov’s

colleagues. But inasmuch as the said Director was a mili-

tary man, he was not fully acquainted with the myriad

subtleties of the civilian mind; wherefore it was not long

before, by dint of maintaining a discreet exterior, added

to a faculty for humouring all and sundry, a fresh gang of

tchinovniks succeeded in restoring him to mildness, and

the General found himself in the hands of greater thieves

than before, but thieves whom he did not even suspect,

seeing that he believed himself to have selected men fit

and proper, and even ventured to boast of possessing a

keen eye for talent. In a trice the tchinovniks concerned

appraised his spirit and character; with the result that the

entire sphere over which he ruled became an agency for

the detection of irregularities. Everywhere, and in every

case, were those irregularities pursued as a fisherman pur-

sues a fat sturgeon with a gaff; and to such an extent did

221

Gogolthe sport prove successful that almost in no time each

participator in the hunt was seen to be in possession of

several thousand roubles of capital. Upon that a large

number of the former band of tchinovniks also became

converted to paths of rectitude, and were allowed to re-

enter the Service; but not by hook or by crook could

Chichikov worm his way back, even though, incited thereto

by sundry items of paper currency, the General’s first sec-

retary and principal bear leader did all he could on our

hero’s behalf. It seemed that the General was the kind of

man who, though easily led by the nose (provided it was

done without his knowledge) no sooner got an idea into

his head than it stuck there like a nail, and could not

possibly be extracted; and all that the wily secretary suc-

ceeded in procuring was the tearing up of a certain dirty

fragment of paper—even that being effected only by an

appeal to the General’s compassion, on the score of the

unhappy fate which, otherwise, would befall Chichikov’s

wife and children (who, luckily, had no existence in fact).

“Well,” said Chichikov to himself, “I have done my best,

and now everything has failed. Lamenting my misfortune

won’t help me, but only action.” And with that he de-

cided to begin his career anew, and once more to arm

himself with the weapons of patience and self-denial. The

better to effect this, he had, of course to remove to an-

other town. Yet somehow, for a while, things miscarried.

More than once he found himself forced to exchange one

post for another, and at the briefest of notice; and all of

them were posts of the meanest, the most wretched, or-

der. Yet, being a man of the utmost nicety of feeling, the

fact that he found himself rubbing shoulders with any-

thing but nice companions did not prevent him from pre-

serving intact his innate love of what was decent and

seemly, or from cherishing the instinct which led him to

hanker after office fittings of lacquered wood, with neat-

ness and orderliness everywhere. Nor did he at any time

permit a foul word to creep into his speech, and would

feel hurt even if in the speech of others there occurred a

scornful reference to anything which pertained to rank

and dignity. Also, the reader will be pleased to know that

our hero changed his linen every other day, and in sum-

mer, when the weather was very hot, every day, seeing

222

Dead Soulsthat the very faintest suspicion of an unpleasant odour

offended his fastidiousness. For the same reason it was his

custom, before being valeted by Petrushka, always to plug

his nostrils with a couple of cloves. In short, there were

many occasions when his nerves suffered rackings as cruel

as a young girl’s, and so helped to increase his disgust at

having once more to associate with men who set no store

by the decencies of life. Yet, though he braced himself to

the task, this period of adversity told upon his health,

and he even grew a trifle shabby. More than once, on

happening to catch sight of himself in the mirror, he could

not forbear exclaiming: “Holy Mother of God, but what a

nasty-looking brute I have become!” and for a long while

afterwards could not with anything like sang-froid con-

template his reflection. Yet throughout he bore up stoutly

and patiently—and ended by being transferred to the Cus-

toms Department. It may be said that the department

had long constituted the secret goal of his ambition, for

he had noted the foreign elegancies with which its offi-

cials always contrived to provide themselves, and had also

observed that invariably they were able to send presents

of china and cambric to their sisters and aunts—well, to

their lady friends generally. Yes, more than once he had

said to himself with a sigh: “That is the department to

which I ought to belong, for, given a town near the fron-

tier, and a sensible set of colleagues, I might be able to

fit myself out with excellent linen shirts.” Also, it may be

said that most frequently of all had his thoughts turned

towards a certain quality of French soap which imparted a

peculiar whiteness to the skin and a peerless freshness to

the cheeks. Its name is known to God alone, but at least

it was to be procured only in the immediate neighbourhood

of the frontier. So, as I say, Chichikov had long felt a

leaning towards the Customs, but for a time had been

restrained from applying for the same by the various cur-

rent advantages of the Building Commission; since rightly

he had adjudged the latter to constitute a bird in the

hand, and the former to constitute only a bird in the

bush. But now he decided that, come what might, into

the Customs he must make his way. And that way he

made, and then applied himself to his new duties with a

zeal born of the fact that he realised that fortune had

223

Gogolspecially marked him out for a Customs officer. Indeed,

such activity, perspicuity, and ubiquity as his had never

been seen or thought of. Within four weeks at the most

he had so thoroughly got his hand in that he was conver-

sant with Customs procedure in every detail. Not only

could he weigh and measure, but also he could divine

from an invoice how many arshins of cloth or other mate-

rial a given piece contained, and then, taking a roll of the

latter in his hand, could specify at once the number of

pounds at which it would tip the scale. As for searchings,

well, even his colleagues had to admit that he possessed

the nose of a veritable bloodhound, and that it was im-

possible not to marvel at the patience wherewith he would

try every button of the suspected person, yet preserve,

throughout, a deadly politeness and an icy sang-froid which

surpass belief. And while the searched were raging, and

foaming at the mouth, and feeling that they would give

worlds to alter his smiling exterior with a good, resound-

ing slap, he would move not a muscle of his face, nor

abate by a jot the urbanity of his demeanour, as he mur-

mured, “Do you mind so far incommoding yourself as to

stand up?” or “Pray step into the next room, madam,

where the wife of one of our staff will attend you,” or

“Pray allow me to slip this penknife of mine into the

lining of your coat” (after which he would extract thence

shawls and towels with as much nonchalance as he would

have done from his own travelling-trunk). Even his supe-

riors acknowledged him to be a devil at the job, rather

than a human being, so perfect was his instinct for look-

ing into cart-wheels, carriage-poles, horses’ ears, and places

whither an author ought not to penetrate even in

thought—places whither only a Customs official is per-

mitted to go. The result was that the wretched traveller

who had just crossed the frontier would, within a few

minutes, become wholly at sea, and, wiping away the

perspiration, and breaking out into body flushes, would

be reduced to crossing himself and muttering, “Well, well,

well!” In fact, such a traveller would feel in the position

of a schoolboy who, having been summoned to the pres-

ence of the headmaster for the ostensible purpose of be-

ing give an order, has found that he receives, instead, a

sound flogging. In short, for some time Chichikov made it

224

Dead Soulsimpossible for smugglers to earn a living. In particular, he

reduced Polish Jewry almost to despair, so invincible, so

almost unnatural, was the rectitude, the incorruptibility

which led him to refrain from converting himself into a

small capitalist with the aid of confiscated goods and

articles which, “to save excessive clerical labour,” had

failed to be handed over to the Government. Also, with-

out saying it goes that such phenomenally zealous and

disinterested service attracted general astonishment, and,

eventually, the notice of the authorities; whereupon he

received promotion, and followed that up by mooting a

scheme for the infallible detection of contrabandists, pro-

vided that he could be furnished with the necessary au-

thority for carrying out the same. At once such authority

was accorded him, as also unlimited power to conduct

every species of search and investigation. And that was all

he wanted. It happened that previously there had been

formed a well-found association for smuggling on regular,

carefully prepared lines, and that this daring scheme seemed

to promise profit to the extent of some millions of money:

yet, though he had long had knowledge of it, Chichikov

had said to the association’s emissaries, when sent to buy

him over, “The time is not yet.” But now that he had got

all the reins into his hands, he sent word of the fact to

the gang, and with it the remark, “The time is NOW.” Nor

was he wrong in his calculations, for, within the space of

a year, he had acquired what he could not have made

during twenty years of non-fraudulent service. With simi-

lar sagacity he had, during his early days in the depart-

ment, declined altogether to enter into relations with the

association, for the reason that he had then been a mere

cipher, and would have come in for nothing large in the

way of takings; but now—well, now it was another mat-

ter altogether, and he could dictate what terms he liked.

Moreover, that the affair might progress the more smoothly,

he suborned a fellow tchinovnik of the type which, in

spite of grey hairs, stands powerless against temptation;

and, the contract concluded, the association duly pro-

ceeded to business. Certainly business began brilliantly.

But probably most of my readers are familiar with the oft-

repeated story of the passage of Spanish sheep across the

frontier in double fleeces which carried between their outer

225

Gogollayers and their inner enough lace of Brabant to sell to

the tune of millions of roubles; wherefore I will not re-

count the story again beyond saying that those journeys

took place just when Chichikov had become head of the

Customs, and that, had he not a hand in the enterprise,

not all the Jews in the world could have brought it to

success. By the time that three or four of these ovine

invasions had taken place, Chichikov and his accomplice

had come to be the possessors of four hundred thousand

roubles apiece; while some even aver that the former’s

gains totalled half a million, owing to the greater indus-

try which he had displayed in the matter. Nor can any one

but God say to what a figure the fortunes of the pair

might not eventually have attained, had not an awkward

contretemps cut right across their arrangements. That is

to say, for some reason or another the devil so far de-

prived these tchinovnik-conspirators of sense as to make

them come to words with one another, and then to en-

gage in a quarrel. Beginning with a heated argument, this

quarrel reached the point of Chichikov—who was, possi-

bly, a trifle tipsy—calling his colleague a priest’s son; and

though that description of the person so addressed was

perfectly accurate, he chose to take offence, and to an-

swer Chichikov with the words (loudly and incisively ut-

tered), “It is you who have a priest for your father,” and

to add to that (the more to incense his companion), “Yes,

mark you! That is how it is.” Yet, though he had thus

turned the tables upon Chichikov with a tu quoque, and

then capped that exploit with the words last quoted, the

offended tchinovnik could not remain satisfied, but went

on to send in an anonymous document to the authorities.

On the other hand, some aver that it was over a woman

that the pair fell out—over a woman who, to quote the

phrase then current among the staff of the Customs De-

partment, was “as fresh and as strong as the pulp of a

turnip,” and that night-birds were hired to assault our

hero in a dark alley, and that the scheme miscarried, and

that in any case both Chichikov and his friend had been

deceived, seeing that the person to whom the lady had

really accorded her favours was a certain staff-captain

named Shamsharev. However, only God knows the truth of

the matter. Let the inquisitive reader ferret it out for

226

Dead Soulshimself. The fact remains that a complete exposure of the

dealings with the contrabandists followed, and that the

two tchinovniks were put to the question, deprived of

their property, and made to formulate in writing all that

they had done. Against this thunderbolt of fortune the

State Councillor could make no headway, and in some re-

tired spot or another sank into oblivion; but Chichikov

put a brave face upon the matter, for, in spite of the

authorities’ best efforts to smell out his gains, he had

contrived to conceal a portion of them, and also resorted

to every subtle trick of intellect which could possibly be

employed by an experienced man of the world who has a

wide knowledge of his fellows. Nothing which could be

effected by pleasantness of demeanour, by moving ora-

tory, by clouds of flattery, and by the occasional insertion

of a coin into a palm did he leave undone; with the result

that he was retired with less ignominy than was his com-

panion, and escaped actual trial on a criminal charge. Yet

he issued stripped of all his capital, stripped of his im-

ported effects, stripped of everything. That is to say, all

that remained to him consisted of ten thousand roubles

which he had stored against a rainy day, two dozen linen

shirts, a small britchka of the type used by bachelors, and

two serving-men named Selifan and Petrushka. Yes, and

an impulse of kindness moved the tchinovniks of the Cus-

toms also to set aside for him a few cakes of the soap

which he had found so excellent for the freshness of the

cheeks. Thus once more our hero found himself stranded.

And what an accumulation of misfortunes had descended

upon his head!—though, true, he termed them “suffering

in the Service in the cause of Truth.” Certainly one would

have thought that, after these buffetings and trials and

changes of fortune—after this taste of the sorrows of

life—he and his precious ten thousand roubles would have

withdrawn to some peaceful corner in a provincial town,

where, clad in a stuff dressing-gown, he could have sat

and listened to the peasants quarrelling on festival days,

or (for the sake of a breath of fresh air) have gone in

person to the poulterer’s to finger chickens for soup, and

so have spent a quiet, but not wholly useless, existence;

but nothing of the kind took place, and therein we must

do justice to the strength of his character. In other words,

227

Gogolalthough he had undergone what, to the majority of men,

would have meant ruin and discouragement and a shat-

tering of ideals, he still preserved his energy. True, down-

cast and angry, and full of resentment against the world

in general, he felt furious with the injustice of fate, and

dissatisfied with the dealings of men; yet he could not

forbear courting additional experiences. In short, the pa-

tience which he displayed was such as to make the wooden

persistency of the German—a persistency merely due to

the slow, lethargic circulation of the Teuton’s blood—

seem nothing at all, seeing that by nature Chichikov’s

blood flowed strongly, and that he had to employ much

force of will to curb within himself those elements which

longed to burst forth and revel in freedom. He thought

things over, and, as he did so, a certain spice of reason

appeared in his reflections.

“How have I come to be what I am?” he said to himself.

“Why has misfortune overtaken me in this way? Never

have I wronged a poor person, or robbed a widow, or

turned any one out of doors: I have always been careful

only to take advantage of those who possess more than

their share. Moreover, I have never gleaned anywhere but

where every one else was gleaning; and, had I not done

so, others would have gleaned in my place. Why, then,

should those others be prospering, and I be sunk as low

as a worm? What am I? What am I good for? How can I,

in future, hope to look any honest father of a family in

the face? How shall I escape being tortured with the

thought that I am cumbering the ground? What, in the

years to come, will my children say, save that ‘our father

was a brute, for he left us nothing to live upon?’”

Here I may remark that we have seen how much thought

Chichikov devoted to his future descendants. Indeed, had

not there been constantly recurring to his mind the insis-

tent question, “What will my children say?” he might not

have plunged into the affair so deeply. Nevertheless, like a

wary cat which glances hither and thither to see whether

its mistress be not coming before it can make off with

whatsoever first falls to its paw (butter, fat, lard, a duck,

or anything else), so our future founder of a family con-

tinued, though weeping and bewailing his lot, to let not

a single detail escape his eye. That is to say, he retained

228

Dead Soulshis wits ever in a state of activity, and kept his brain

constantly working. All that he required was a plan. Once

more he pulled himself together, once more he embarked

upon a life of toil, once more he stinted himself in every-

thing, once more he left clean and decent surroundings

for a dirty, mean existence. In other words, until some-

thing better should turn up, he embraced the calling of

an ordinary attorney—a calling which, not then possessed

of a civic status, was jostled on very side, enjoyed little

respect at the hands of the minor legal fry (or, indeed, at

its own), and perforce met with universal slights and rude-

ness. But sheer necessity compelled Chichikov to face these

things. Among commissions entrusted to him was that of

placing in the hands of the Public Trustee several hundred

peasants who belonged to a ruined estate. The estate had

reached its parlous condition through cattle disease,

through rascally bailiffs, through failures of the harvest,

through such epidemic diseases that had killed off the

best workmen, and, last, but not least, through the sense-

less conduct of the owner himself, who had furnished a

house in Moscow in the latest style, and then squandered

his every kopeck, so that nothing was left for his further

maintenance, and it became necessary to mortgage the

remains—including the peasants—of the estate. In those

days mortgage to the Treasury was an innovation looked

upon with reserve, and, as attorney in the matter, Chichikov

had first of all to “entertain” every official concerned (we

know that, unless that be previously done, unless a whole

bottle of madeira first be emptied down each clerical

throat, not the smallest legal affair can be carried through),

and to explain, for the barring of future attachments,

that half of the peasants were dead.

“And are they entered on the revision lists?” asked the

secretary. “Yes,” replied Chichikov. “Then what are you

boggling at?” continued the Secretary. “Should one soul

die, another will be born, and in time grow up to take the

first one’s place.” Upon that there dawned on our hero

one of the most inspired ideas which ever entered the

human brain. “What a simpleton I am!” he thought to

himself. “Here am I looking about for my mittens when

all the time I have got them tucked into my belt. Why,

were I myself to buy up a few souls which are dead—to

229

Gogolbuy them before a new revision list shall have been made,

the Council of Public Trust might pay me two hundred

roubles apiece for them, and I might find myself with,

say, a capital of two hundred thousand roubles! The present

moment is particularly propitious, since in various parts

of the country there has been an epidemic, and, glory be

to God, a large number of souls have died of it. Nowadays

landowners have taken to card-playing and junketting and

wasting their money, or to joining the Civil Service in St.

Petersburg; consequently their estates are going to rack

and ruin, and being managed in any sort of fashion, and

succeeding in paying their dues with greater difficulty

each year. That being so, not a man of the lot but would

gladly surrender to me his dead souls rather than con-

tinue paying the poll-tax; and in this fashion I might

make—well, not a few kopecks. Of course there are diffi-

culties, and, to avoid creating a scandal, I should need to

employ plenty of finesse; but man was given his brain to

USE, not to neglect. One good point about the scheme is

that it will seem so improbable that in case of an acci-

dent, no one in the world will believe in it. True, it is

illegal to buy or mortgage peasants without land, but I

can easily pretend to be buying them only for transferment

elsewhere. Land is to be acquired in the provinces of Taurida

and Kherson almost for nothing, provided that one under-

takes subsequently to colonise it; so to Kherson I will

‘transfer’ them, and long may they live there! And the

removal of my dead souls shall be carried out in the strictest

legal form; and if the authorities should want confirma-

tion by testimony, I shall produce a letter signed by my

own superintendent of the Khersonian rural police—that

is to say, by myself. Lastly, the supposed village in Kherson

shall be called Chichikovoe—better still Pavlovskoe, ac-

cording to my Christian name.”

In this fashion there germinated in our hero’s brain that

strange scheme for which the reader may or may not be

grateful, but for which the author certainly is so, seeing

that, had it never occurred to Chichikov, this story would

never have seen the light.

After crossing himself, according to the Russian cus-

tom, Chichikov set about carrying out his enterprise. On

pretence of selecting a place wherein to settle, he started

230

Dead Soulsforth to inspect various corners of the Russian Empire,

but more especially those which had suffered from such

unfortunate accidents as failures of the harvest, a high

rate of mortality, or whatsoever else might enable him to

purchase souls at the lowest possible rate. But he did not

tackle his landowners haphazard: he rather selected such

of them as seemed more particularly suited to his taste,

or with whom he might with the least possible trouble

conclude identical agreements; though, in the first in-

stance, he always tried, by getting on terms of acquain-

tanceship—better still, of friendship—with them, to ac-

quire the souls for nothing, and so to avoid purchase at

all. In passing, my readers must not blame me if the char-

acters whom they have encountered in these pages have

not been altogether to their liking. The fault is Chichikov’s

rather than mine, for he is the master, and where he leads

we must follow. Also, should my readers gird at me for a

certain dimness and want of clarity in my principal char-

acters and actors, that will be tantamount to saying that

never do the broad tendency and the general scope of a

work become immediately apparent. Similarly does the

entry to every town—the entry even to the Capital it-

self—convey to the traveller such an impression of vague-

ness that at first everything looks grey and monotonous,

and the lines of smoky factories and workshops seem never

to be coming to an end; but in time there will begin also

to stand out the outlines of six-storied mansions, and of

shops and balconies, and wide perspectives of streets, and

a medley of steeples, columns, statues, and turrets—the

whole framed in rattle and roar and the infinite wonders

which the hand and the brain of men have conceived. Of

the manner in which Chichikov’s first purchases were made

the reader is aware. Subsequently he will see also how the

affair progressed, and with what success or failure our

hero met, and how Chichikov was called upon to decide

and to overcome even more difficult problems than the

foregoing, and by what colossal forces the levers of his

far-flung tale are moved, and how eventually the horizon

will become extended until everything assumes a grandi-

ose and a lyrical tendency. Yes, many a verst of road re-

mains to be travelled by a party made up of an elderly

gentleman, a britchka of the kind affected by bachelors, a

231

Gogolvalet named Petrushka, a coachman named Selifan, and

three horses which, from the Assessor to the skewbald,

are known to us individually by name. Again, although I

have given a full description of our hero’s exterior (such

as it is), I may yet be asked for an inclusive definition

also of his moral personality. That he is no hero com-

pounded of virtues and perfections must be already clear.

Then WHAT is he? A villain? Why should we call him a

villain? Why should we be so hard upon a fellow man? In

these days our villains have ceased to exist. Rather it

would be fairer to call him an acquirer. The love of acqui-

sition, the love of gain, is a fault common to many, and

gives rise to many and many a transaction of the kind

generally known as “not strictly honourable.” True, such a

character contains an element of ugliness, and the same

reader who, on his journey through life, would sit at the

board of a character of this kind, and spend a most agree-

able time with him, would be the first to look at him

askance if he should appear in the guise of the hero of a

novel or a play. But wise is the reader who, on meeting

such a character, scans him carefully, and, instead of shrink-

ing from him with distaste, probes him to the springs of

his being. The human personality contains nothing which

may not, in the twinkling of an eye, become altogether

changed—nothing in which, before you can look round,

there may not spring to birth some cankerous worm which

is destined to suck thence the essential juice. Yes, it is a

common thing to see not only an overmastering passion,

but also a passion of the most petty order, arise in a man

who was born to better things, and lead him both to

forget his greatest and most sacred obligations, and to

see only in the veriest trifles the Great and the Holy. For

human passions are as numberless as is the sand of the

seashore, and go on to become his most insistent of mas-

ters. Happy, therefore, the man who may choose from

among the gamut of human passions one which is noble!

Hour by hour will that instinct grow and multiply in its

measureless beneficence; hour by hour will it sink deeper

and deeper into the infinite paradise of his soul. But there

are passions of which a man cannot rid himself, seeing

that they are born with him at his birth, and he has no

power to abjure them. Higher powers govern those pas-

232

Dead Soulssions, and in them is something which will call to him,

and refuse to be silenced, to the end of his life. Yes,

whether in a guise of darkness, or whether in a guise

which will become converted into a light to lighten the

world, they will and must attain their consummation on

life’s field: and in either case they have been evoked for

man’s good. In the same way may the passion which drew

our Chichikov onwards have been one that was indepen-

dent of himself; in the same way may there have lurked

even in his cold essence something which will one day

cause men to humble themselves in the dust before the

infinite wisdom of God.

Yet that folk should be dissatisfied with my hero mat-

ters nothing. What matters is the fact that, under differ-

ent circumstances, their approval could have been taken

as a foregone conclusion. That is to say, had not the

author pried over-deeply into Chichikov’s soul, nor stirred

up in its depths what shunned and lay hidden from the

light, nor disclosed those of his hero’s thoughts which

that hero would have not have disclosed even to his most

intimate friend; had the author, indeed, exhibited Chichikov

just as he exhibited himself to the townsmen of N. and

Manilov and the rest; well, then we may rest assured that

every reader would have been delighted with him, and

have voted him a most interesting person. For it is not

nearly so necessary that Chichikov should figure before

the reader as though his form and person were actually

present to the eye as that, on concluding a perusal of this

work, the reader should be able to return, unharrowed in

soul, to that cult of the card-table which is the solace

and delight of all good Russians. Yes, readers of this book,

none of you really care to see humanity revealed in its

nakedness. “Why should we do so?” you say. “What would

be the use of it? Do we not know for ourselves that hu-

man life contains much that is gross and contemptible?

Do we not with our own eyes have to look upon much

that is anything but comforting? Far better would it be if

you would put before us what is comely and attractive, so

that we might forget ourselves a little.” In the same fash-

ion does a landowner say to his bailiff: “Why do you come

and tell me that the affairs of my estate are in a bad way?

I know that without your help. Have you nothing else to

233

Gogoltell me? Kindly allow me to forget the fact, or else to

remain in ignorance of it, and I shall be much obliged to

you.” Whereafter the said landowner probably proceeds to

spend on his diversion the money which ought to have

gone towards the rehabilitation of his affairs.

Possibly the author may also incur censure at the hands

of those so-called “patriots” who sit quietly in corners,

and become capitalists through making fortunes at the

expense of others. Yes, let but something which they con-

ceive to be derogatory to their country occur—for in-

stance, let there be published some book which voices the

bitter truth—and out they will come from their hiding-

places like a spider which perceives a fly to be caught in

its web. “Is it well to proclaim this to the world, and to

set folk talking about it?” they will cry. “What you have

described touches us, is our affair. Is conduct of that kind

right? What will foreigners say? Does any one care calmly

to sit by and hear himself traduced? Why should you lead

foreigners to suppose that all is not well with us, and that

we are not patriotic?” Well, to these sage remarks no an-

swer can really be returned, especially to such of the above

as refer to foreign opinion. But see here. There once lived

in a remote corner of Russia two natives of the region

indicated. One of those natives was a good man named

Kifa Mokievitch, and a man of kindly disposition; a man

who went through life in a dressing-gown, and paid no

heed to his household, for the reason that his whole being

was centred upon the province of speculation, and that,

in particular, he was preoccupied with a philosophical prob-

lem usually stated by him thus: “A beast,” he would say,

“is born naked. Now, why should that be? Why should not

a beast be born as a bird is born—that is to say, through

the process of being hatched from an egg? Nature is be-

yond the understanding, however much one may probe

her.” This was the substance of Kifa Mokievitch’s reflec-

tions. But herein is not the chief point. The other of the

pair was a fellow named Mofi Kifovitch, and son to the

first named. He was what we Russians call a “hero,” and

while his father was pondering the parturition of beasts,

his, the son’s, lusty, twenty-year-old temperament was

violently struggling for development. Yet that son could

tackle nothing without some accident occurring. At one

234

Dead Soulsmoment would he crack some one’s fingers in half, and at

another would he raise a bump on somebody’s nose; so

that both at home and abroad every one and everything—

from the serving-maid to the yard-dog—fled on his ap-

proach, and even the bed in his bedroom became shat-

tered to splinters. Such was Mofi Kifovitch; and with it all

he had a kindly soul. But herein is not the chief point.

“Good sir, good Kifa Mokievitch,” servants and neighbours

would come and say to the father, “what are you going to

do about your Moki Kifovitch? We get no rest from him,

he is so above himself.” “That is only his play, that is only

his play,” the father would reply. “What else can you ex-

pect? It is too late now to start a quarrel with him, and,

moreover, every one would accuse me of harshness. True,

he is a little conceited; but, were I to reprove him in

public, the whole thing would become common talk, and

folk would begin giving him a dog’s name. And if they did

that, would not their opinion touch me also, seeing that

I am his father? Also, I am busy with philosophy, and

have no time for such things. Lastly, Moki Kifovitch is my

son, and very dear to my heart.” And, beating his breast,

Kifa Mokievitch again asserted that, even though his son

should elect to continue his pranks, it would not be for

HIM, for the father, to proclaim the fact, or to fall out

with his offspring. And, this expression of paternal feeling

uttered, Kifa Mokievitch left Moki Kifovitch to his heroic

exploits, and himself returned to his beloved subject of

speculation, which now included also the problem, “Sup-

pose elephants were to take to being hatched from eggs,

would not the shell of such eggs be of a thickness proof

against cannonballs, and necessitate the invention of some

new type of firearm?” Thus at the end of this little story

we have these two denizens of a peaceful corner of Russia

looking thence, as from a window, in less terror of doing

what was scandalous than of having it said of them that

they were acting scandalously. Yes, the feeling animating

our so-called “patriots” is not true patriotism at all. Some-

thing else lies beneath it. Who, if not an author, is to

speak aloud the truth? Men like you, my pseudo-patriots,

stand in dread of the eye which is able to discern, yet

shrink from using your own, and prefer, rather, to glance

at everything unheedingly. Yes, after laughing heartily over

235

GogolChichikov’s misadventures, and perhaps even commending

the author for his dexterity of observation and pretty turn

of wit, you will look at yourselves with redoubled pride and

a self-satisfied smile, and add: “Well, we agree that in cer-

tain parts of the provinces there exists strange and ridicu-

lous individuals, as well as unconscionable rascals.”

Yet which of you, when quiet, and alone, and engaged

in solitary self-communion, would not do well to probe

your own souls, and to put to yourselves the solemn ques-

tion, “Is there not in me an element of Chichikov?” For

how should there not be? Which of you is not liable at any

moment to be passed in the street by an acquaintance

who, nudging his neighbour, may say of you, with a barely

suppressed sneer: “Look! there goes Chichikov! That is

Chichikov who has just gone by!”

But here are we talking at the top of our voices whilst

all the time our hero lies slumbering in his britchka! In-

deed, his name has been repeated so often during the

recital of his life’s history that he must almost have heard

us! And at any time he is an irritable, irascible fellow

when spoken of with disrespect. True, to the reader

Chichikov’s displeasure cannot matter a jot; but for the

author it would mean ruin to quarrel with his hero, seeing

that, arm in arm, Chichikov and he have yet far to go.

“Tut, tut, tut!” came in a shout from Chichikov. “Hi,

Selifan!”

“What is it?” came the reply, uttered with a drawl.

“What is it? Why, how dare you drive like that? Come!

Bestir yourself a little!”

And indeed, Selifan had long been sitting with half-

closed eyes, and hands which bestowed no encourage-

ment upon his somnolent steeds save an occasional flick-

ing of the reins against their flanks; whilst Petrushka had

lost his cap, and was leaning backwards until his head had

come to rest against Chichikov’s knees—a position which

necessitated his being awakened with a cuff. Selifan also

roused himself, and apportioned to the skewbald a few

cuts across the back of a kind which at least had the

effect of inciting that animal to trot; and when, pres-

ently, the other two horses followed their companion’s

example, the light britchka moved forwards like a piece of

thistledown. Selifan flourished his whip and shouted, “Hi,

236

Dead Soulshi!” as the inequalities of the road jerked him vertically on

his seat; and meanwhile, reclining against the leather cush-

ions of the vehicle’s interior, Chichikov smiled with grati-

fication at the sensation of driving fast. For what Russian

does not love to drive fast? Which of us does not at times

yearn to give his horses their head, and to let them go,

and to cry, “To the devil with the world!”? At such mo-

ments a great force seems to uplift one as on wings; and

one flies, and everything else flies, but contrariwise—

both the verst stones, and traders riding on the shafts of

their waggons, and the forest with dark lines of spruce

and fir amid which may be heard the axe of the woodcut-

ter and the croaking of the raven. Yes, out of a dim,

remote distance the road comes towards one, and while

nothing save the sky and the light clouds through which

the moon is cleaving her way seem halted, the brief

glimpses wherein one can discern nothing clearly have in

them a pervading touch of mystery. Ah, troika, troika,

swift as a bird, who was it first invented you? Only among

a hardy race of folk can you have come to birth—only in

a land which, though poor and rough, lies spread over

half the world, and spans versts the counting whereof

would leave one with aching eyes. Nor are you a mod-

ishly-fashioned vehicle of the road—a thing of clamps

and iron. Rather, you are a vehicle but shapen and fitted

with the axe or chisel of some handy peasant of Yaroslav.

Nor are you driven by a coachman clothed in German liv-

ery, but by a man bearded and mittened. See him as he

mounts, and flourishes his whip, and breaks into a long-

drawn song! Away like the wind go the horses, and the

wheels, with their spokes, become transparent circles, and

the road seems to quiver beneath them, and a pedestrian,

with a cry of astonishment, halts to watch the vehicle as

it flies, flies, flies on its way until it becomes lost on the

ultimate horizon—a speck amid a cloud of dust!

And you, Russia of mine—are not you also speeding like

a troika which nought can overtake? Is not the road smok-

ing beneath your wheels, and the bridges thundering as

you cross them, and everything being left in the rear, and

the spectators, struck with the portent, halting to won-

der whether you be not a thunderbolt launched from

heaven? What does that awe-inspiring progress of yours

237

Gogolforetell? What is the unknown force which lies within your

mysterious steeds? Surely the winds themselves must abide

in their manes, and every vein in their bodies be an ear

stretched to catch the celestial message which bids them,

with iron-girded breasts, and hooves which barely touch

the earth as they gallop, fly forward on a mission of God?

Whither, then, are you speeding, O Russia of mine? Whither?

Answer me! But no answer comes—only the weird sound

of your collar-bells. Rent into a thousand shreds, the air

roars past you, for you are overtaking the whole world,

and shall one day force all nations, all empires to stand

aside, to give you way!

1841.

PART II

CHAPTER I

Why do I so persistently paint the poverty, the imperfec-

tions of Russian life, and delve into the remotest depths,

the most retired holes and corners, of our Empire for my

subjects? The answer is that there is nothing else to be

done when an author’s idiosyncrasy happens to incline

him that way. So again we find ourselves in a retired spot.

But what a spot!

Imagine, if you can, a mountain range like a gigantic

fortress, with embrasures and bastions which appear to

soar a thousand versts towards the heights of heaven,

and, towering grandly over a boundless expanse of plain,

are broken up into precipitous, overhanging limestone cliffs.

Here and there those cliffs are seamed with water-courses

and gullies, while at other points they are rounded off

into spurs of green—spurs now coated with fleece-like

tufts of young undergrowth, now studded with the stumps

of felled trees, now covered with timber which has, by

238

Dead Soulssome miracle, escaped the woodman’s axe. Also, a river

winds awhile between its banks, then leaves the meadow

land, divides into runlets (all flashing in the sun like fire),

plunges, re-united, into the midst of a thicket of elder,

birth, and pine, and, lastly, speeds triumphantly past

bridges and mills and weirs which seem to be lying in wait

for it at every turn.

At one particular spot the steep flank of the mountain

range is covered with billowy verdure of denser growth

than the rest; and here the aid of skilful planting, added

to the shelter afforded by a rugged ravine, has enabled

the flora of north and south so to be brought together

that, twined about with sinuous hop-tendrils, the oak,

the spruce fir, the wild pear, the maple, the cherry, the

thorn, and the mountain ash either assist or check one

another’s growth, and everywhere cover the declivity with

their straggling profusion. Also, at the edge of the sum-

mit there can be seen mingling with the green of the trees

the red roofs of a manorial homestead, while behind the

upper stories of the mansion proper and its carved bal-

cony and a great semi-circular window there gleam the

tiles and gables of some peasants’ huts. Lastly, over this

combination of trees and roofs there rises—overtopping

everything with its gilded, sparkling steeple—an old vil-

lage church. On each of its pinnacles a cross of carved gilt

is stayed with supports of similar gilding and design; with

the result that from a distance the gilded portions have

the effect of hanging without visible agency in the air.

And the whole—the three successive tiers of woodland,

roofs, and crosses whole—lies exquisitely mirrored in the

river below, where hollow willows, grotesquely shaped

(some of them rooted on the river’s banks, and some in

the water itself, and all drooping their branches until their

leaves have formed a tangle with the water lilies which

float on the surface), seem to be gazing at the marvellous

reflection at their feet.

Thus the view from below is beautiful indeed. But the

view from above is even better. No guest, no visitor, could

stand on the balcony of the mansion and remain indiffer-

ent. So boundless is the panorama revealed that surprise

would cause him to catch at his breath, and exclaim:

“Lord of Heaven, but what a prospect!” Beyond meadows

239

Gogolstudded with spinneys and water-mills lie forests belted

with green; while beyond, again, there can be seen show-

ing through the slightly misty air strips of yellow heath,

and, again, wide-rolling forests (as blue as the sea or a

cloud), and more heath, paler than the first, but still

yellow. Finally, on the far horizon a range of chalk-topped

hills gleams white, even in dull weather, as though it were

lightened with perpetual sunshine; and here and there on

the dazzling whiteness of its lower slopes some plaster-

like, nebulous patches represent far-off villages which lie

too remote for the eye to discern their details. Indeed,

only when the sunlight touches a steeple to gold does one

realise that each such patch is a human settlement. Fi-

nally, all is wrapped in an immensity of silence which even

the far, faint echoes of persons singing in the void of the

plain cannot shatter.

Even after gazing at the spectacle for a couple of hours

or so, the visitor would still find nothing to say, save:

“Lord of Heaven, but what a prospect!” Then who is the

dweller in, the proprietor of, this manor—a manor to

which, as to an impregnable fortress, entrance cannot be

gained from the side where we have been standing, but

only from the other approach, where a few scattered oaks

offer hospitable welcome to the visitor, and then, spread-

ing above him their spacious branches (as in friendly em-

brace), accompany him to the facade of the mansion whose

top we have been regarding from the reverse aspect, but

which now stands frontwise on to us, and has, on one side

of it, a row of peasants’ huts with red tiles and carved

gables, and, on the other, the village church, with those

glittering golden crosses and gilded open-work charms

which seem to hang suspended in the air? Yes, indeed!—

to what fortunate individual does this corner of the world

belong? It belongs to Andrei Ivanovitch Tientietnikov, land-

owner of the canton of Tremalakhan, and, withal, a bach-

elor of about thirty.

Should my lady readers ask of me what manner of man is

Tientietnikov, and what are his attributes and peculiari-

ties, I should refer them to his neighbours. Of these, a

member of the almost extinct tribe of intelligent staff

officers on the retired list once summed up Tientietnikov

in the phrase, “He is an absolute blockhead;” while a

240

Dead SoulsGeneral who resided ten versts away was heard to remark

that “he is a young man who, though not exactly a fool,

has at least too much crowded into his head. I myself

might have been of use to him, for not only do I maintain

certain connections with St. Petersburg, but also—” And

the General left his sentence unfinished. Thirdly, a cap-

tain-superintendent of rural police happened to remark in

the course of conversation: “To-morrow I must go and

see Tientietnikov about his arrears.” Lastly, a peasant of

Tientietnikov’s own village, when asked what his barin was

like, returned no answer at all. All of which would appear

to show that Tientietnikov was not exactly looked upon

with favour.

To speak dispassionately, however, he was not a bad

sort of fellow—merely a star-gazer; and since the world

contains many watchers of the skies, why should

Tientietnikov not have been one of them? However, let

me describe in detail a specimen day of his existence—

one that will closely resemble the rest, and then the

reader will be enabled to judge of Tientietnikov’s charac-

ter, and how far his life corresponded to the beauties of

nature with which he lived surrounded.

On the morning of the specimen day in question he

awoke very late, and, raising himself to a sitting posture,

rubbed his eyes. And since those eyes were small, the

process of rubbing them occupied a very long time, and

throughout its continuance there stood waiting by the

door his valet, Mikhailo, armed with a towel and basin.

For one hour, for two hours, did poor Mikhailo stand there:

then he departed to the kitchen, and returned to find his

master still rubbing his eyes as he sat on the bed. At

length, however, Tientietnikov rose, washed himself, donned

a dressing-gown, and moved into the drawing-room for

morning tea, coffee, cocoa, and warm milk; of all of which

he partook but sparingly, while munching a piece of bread,

and scattering tobacco ash with complete insouciance.

Two hours did he sit over this meal, then poured himself

out another cup of the rapidly cooling tea, and walked to

the window. This faced the courtyard, and outside it, as

usual, there took place the following daily altercation

between a serf named Grigory (who purported to act as

butler) and the housekeeper, Perfilievna.

241

GogolGrigory. Ah, you nuisance, you good-for-nothing, you

had better hold your stupid tongue.

Perfilievna. Yes; and don’t you wish that I would?

Grigory. What? You so thick with that bailiff of yours,

you housekeeping jade!

Perfilievna. Nay, he is as big a thief as you are. Do you

think the barin doesn’t know you? And there he is! He

must have heard everything!

Grigory. Where?

Perfilievna. There—sitting by the window, and looking

at us!

Next, to complete the hubbub, a serf child which had been

clouted by its mother broke out into a bawl, while a borzoi

puppy which had happened to get splashed with boiling water

by the cook fell to yelping vociferously. In short, the place

soon became a babel of shouts and squeals, and, after watch-

ing and listening for a time, the barin found it so impossible

to concentrate his mind upon anything that he sent out

word that the noise would have to be abated.

The next item was that, a couple of hours before lun-

cheon time, he withdrew to his study, to set about em-

ploying himself upon a weighty work which was to con-

sider Russia from every point of view: from the political,

from the philosophical, and from the religious, as well as

to resolve various problems which had arisen to confront

the Empire, and to define clearly the great future to which

the country stood ordained. In short, it was to be the

species of compilation in which the man of the day so

much delights. Yet the colossal undertaking had progressed

but little beyond the sphere of projection, since, after a

pen had been gnawed awhile, and a few strokes had been

committed to paper, the whole would be laid aside in

favour of the reading of some book; and that reading

would continue also during luncheon and be followed by

the lighting of a pipe, the playing of a solitary game of

chess, and the doing of more or less nothing for the rest

of the day.

The foregoing will give the reader a pretty clear idea of

the manner in which it was possible for this man of thirty-

three to waste his time. Clad constantly in slippers and a

dressing-gown, Tientietnikov never went out, never in-

dulged in any form of dissipation, and never walked up-

242

Dead Soulsstairs. Nothing did he care for fresh air, and would bestow

not a passing glance upon all those beauties of the coun-

tryside which moved visitors to such ecstatic admiration.

From this the reader will see that Andrei Ivanovitch

Tientietnikov belonged to that band of sluggards whom

we always have with us, and who, whatever be their present

appellation, used to be known by the nicknames of

“lollopers,” “bed pressers,” and “marmots.” Whether the

type is a type originating at birth, or a type resulting

from untoward circumstances in later life, it is impossible

to say. A better course than to attempt to answer that

question would be to recount the story of Tientietnikov’s

boyhood and upbringing.

Everything connected with the latter seemed to prom-

ise success, for at twelve years of age the boy—keen-

witted, but dreamy of temperament, and inclined to deli-

cacy—was sent to an educational establishment presided

over by an exceptional type of master. The idol of his

pupils, and the admiration of his assistants, Alexander

Petrovitch was gifted with an extraordinary measure of

good sense. How thoroughly he knew the peculiarities of

the Russian of his day! How well he understood boys! How

capable he was of drawing them out! Not a practical joker

in the school but, after perpetrating a prank, would vol-

untarily approach his preceptor and make to him free con-

fession. True, the preceptor would put a stern face upon

the matter, yet the culprit would depart with head held

higher, not lower, than before, since in Alexander Petrovitch

there was something which heartened—something which

seemed to say to a delinquent: “Forward you! Rise to your

feet again, even though you have fallen!” Not lectures on

good behaviour was it, therefore, that fell from his lips,

but rather the injunction, “I want to see intelligence, and

nothing else. The boy who devotes his attention to be-

coming clever will never play the fool, for under such

circumstances, folly disappears of itself.” And so folly did,

for the boy who failed to strive in the desired direction

incurred the contempt of all his comrades, and even dunces

and fools of senior standing did not dare to raise a finger

when saluted by their juniors with opprobrious epithets.

Yet “This is too much,” certain folk would say to Alexander.

“The result will be that your students will turn out prigs.”

243

Gogol“But no,” he would reply. “Not at all. You see, I make it

my principle to keep the incapables for a single term only,

since that is enough for them; but to the clever ones I

allot a double course of instruction.” And, true enough,

any lad of brains was retained for this finishing course.

Yet he did not repress all boyish playfulness, since he

declared it to be as necessary as a rash to a doctor, inas-

much as it enabled him to diagnose what lay hidden within.

Consequently, how the boys loved him! Never was there

such an attachment between master and pupils. And even

later, during the foolish years, when foolish things at-

tract, the measure of affection which Alexander Petrovitch

retained was extraordinary. In fact, to the day of his death,

every former pupil would celebrate the birthday of his late

master by raising his glass in gratitude to the mentor

dead and buried—then close his eyelids upon the tears

which would come trickling through them. Even the slight-

est word of encouragement from Alexander Petrovitch could

throw a lad into a transport of tremulous joy, and arouse

in him an honourable emulation of his fellows. Boys of

small capacity he did not long retain in his establishment;

whereas those who possessed exceptional talent he put

through an extra course of schooling. This senior class—

a class composed of specially-selected pupils—was a very

different affair from what usually obtains in other col-

leges. Only when a boy had attained its ranks did Alexander

demand of him what other masters indiscreetly require of

mere infants—namely the superior frame of mind which,

while never indulging in mockery, can itself bear ridicule,

and disregard the fool, and keep its temper, and repress

itself, and eschew revenge, and calmly, proudly retain its

tranquillity of soul. In short, whatever avails to form a

boy into a man of assured character, that did Alexander

Petrovitch employ during the pupil’s youth, as well as

constantly put him to the test. How well he understood

the art of life!

Of assistant tutors he kept but few, since most of the

necessary instruction he imparted in person, and, without

pedantic terminology and inflated diction and views, could

so transmit to his listeners the inmost spirit of a lesson

that even the youngest present absorbed its essential el-

ements. Also, of studies he selected none but those which

244

Dead Soulsmay help a boy to become a good citizen; and therefore

most of the lectures which he delivered consisted of dis-

courses on what may be awaiting a youth, as well as of

such demarcations of life’s field that the pupil, though

seated, as yet, only at the desk, could beforehand bear

his part in that field both in thought and spirit. Nor did

the master conceal anything. That is to say, without minc-

ing words, he invariably set before his hearers the sorrows

and the difficulties which may confront a man, the trials

and the temptations which may beset him. And this he

did in terms as though, in every possible calling and ca-

pacity, he himself had experienced the same. Consequently,

either the vigorous development of self-respect or the

constant stimulus of the master’s eye (which seemed to

say to the pupil, “Forward!”—that word which has be-

come so familiar to the contemporary Russian, that word

which has worked such wonders upon his sensitive tem-

perament); one or the other, I repeat, would from the

first cause the pupil to tackle difficulties, and only diffi-

culties, and to hunger for prowess only where the path

was arduous, and obstacles were many, and it was neces-

sary to display the utmost strength of mind. Indeed, few

completed the course of which I have spoken without

issuing therefrom reliable, seasoned fighters who could

keep their heads in the most embarrassing of official po-

sitions, and at times when older and wiser men, distracted

with the annoyances of life, had either abandoned every-

thing or, grown slack and indifferent, had surrendered to

the bribe-takers and the rascals. In short, no ex-pupil of

Alexander Petrovitch ever wavered from the right road, but,

familiar with life and with men, armed with the weapons of

prudence, exerted a powerful influence upon wrongdoers.

For a long time past the ardent young Tientietnikov’s

excitable heart had also beat at the thought that one day

he might attain the senior class described. And, indeed,

what better teacher could he have had befall him than its

preceptor? Yet just at the moment when he had been

transferred thereto, just at the moment when he had

reached the coveted position, did his instructor come sud-

denly by his death! This was indeed a blow for the boy—

indeed a terrible initial loss! In his eyes everything con-

nected with the school seemed to undergo a change—the

245

Gogolchief reason being the fact that to the place of the de-

ceased headmaster there succeeded a certain Thedor

Ivanovitch, who at once began to insist upon certain ex-

ternal rules, and to demand of the boys what ought rightly

to have been demanded only of adults. That is to say,

since the lads’ frank and open demeanour savoured to him

only of lack of discipline, he announced (as though in

deliberate spite of his predecessor) that he cared nothing

for progress and intellect, but that heed was to be paid

only to good behaviour. Yet, curiously enough, good

behaviour was just what he never obtained, for every kind

of secret prank became the rule; and while, by day, there

reigned restraint and conspiracy, by night there began to

take place chambering and wantonness.

Also, certain changes in the curriculum of studies came

about, for there were engaged new teachers who held new

views and opinions, and confused their hearers with a

multitude of new terms and phrases, and displayed in their

exposition of things both logical sequence and a zest for

modern discovery and much warmth of individual bias.

Yet their instruction, alas! contained no life—in the mouths

of those teachers a dead language savoured merely of car-

rion. Thus everything connected with the school under-

went a radical alteration, and respect for authority and

the authorities waned, and tutors and ushers came to be

dubbed “Old Thedor,” “Crusty,” and the like. And sundry

other things began to take place—things which necessi-

tated many a penalty and expulsion; until, within a couple

of years, no one who had known the school in former days

would now have recognised it.

Nevertheless Tientietnikov, a youth of retiring disposi-

tion, experienced no leanings towards the nocturnal or-

gies of his companions, orgies during which the latter

used to flirt with damsels before the very windows of the

headmaster’s rooms, nor yet towards their mockery of all

that was sacred, simply because fate had cast in their way

an injudicious priest. No, despite its dreaminess, his soul

ever remembered its celestial origin, and could not be

diverted from the path of virtue. Yet still he hung his

head, for, while his ambition had come to life, it could

find no sort of outlet. Truly ‘twere well if it had NOT come

to life, for throughout the time that he was listening to

246

Dead Soulsprofessors who gesticulated on their chairs he could not

help remembering the old preceptor who, invariably cool

and calm, had yet known how to make himself under-

stood. To what subjects, to what lectures, did the boy

not have to listen!—to lectures on medicine, and on phi-

losophy, and on law, and on a version of general history so

enlarged that even three years failed to enable the profes-

sor to do more than finish the introduction thereto, and

also the account of the development of some self-govern-

ing towns in Germany. None of the stuff remained fixed in

Tientietnikov’s brain save as shapeless clots; for though

his native intellect could not tell him how instruction

ought to be imparted, it at least told him that this was

not the way. And frequently, at such moments he would

recall Alexander Petrovitch, and give way to such grief

that scarcely did he know what he was doing.

But youth is fortunate in the fact that always before it

there lies a future; and in proportion as the time for his

leaving school drew nigh, Tientietnikov’s heart began to

beat higher and higher, and he said to himself: “This is

not life, but only a preparation for life. True life is to be

found in the Public Service. There at least will there be

scope for activity.” So, bestowing not a glance upon that

beautiful corner of the world which never failed to strike

the guest or chance visitor with amazement, and rever-

encing not a whit the dust of his ancestors, he followed

the example of most ambitious men of his class by repair-

ing to St. Petersburg (whither, as we know, the more spir-

ited youth of Russia from every quarter gravitates—there

to enter the Public Service, to shine, to obtain promo-

tion, and, in a word, to scale the topmost peaks of that

pale, cold, deceptive elevation which is known as soci-

ety). But the real starting-point of Tientietnikov’s ambi-

tion was the moment when his uncle (one State Council-

lor Onifri Ivanovitch) instilled into him the maxim that

the only means to success in the Service lay in good hand-

writing, and that, without that accomplishment, no one

could ever hope to become a Minister or Statesman. Thus,

with great difficulty, and also with the help of his uncle’s

influence, young Tientietnikov at length succeeded in be-

ing posted to a Department. On the day that he was con-

ducted into a splendid, shining hall—a hall fitted with

247

Gogolinlaid floors and lacquered desks as fine as though this

were actually the place where the great ones of the Em-

pire met for discussion of the fortunes of the State; on

the day that he saw legions of handsome gentlemen of

the quill-driving profession making loud scratchings with

pens, and cocking their heads to one side; lastly on the

day that he saw himself also allotted a desk, and requested

to copy a document which appeared purposely to be one

of the pettiest possible order (as a matter of fact it re-

lated to a sum of three roubles, and had taken half a year

to produce)—well, at that moment a curious, an unwonted

sensation seized upon the inexperienced youth, for the

gentlemen around him appeared so exactly like a lot of

college students. And, the further to complete the resem-

blance, some of them were engaged in reading trashy trans-

lated novels, which they kept hurriedly thrusting between

the sheets of their apportioned work whenever the Direc-

tor appeared, as though to convey the impression that it

was to that work alone that they were applying them-

selves. In short, the scene seemed to Tientietnikov strange,

and his former pursuits more important than his present,

and his preparation for the Service preferable to the Ser-

vice itself. Yes, suddenly he felt a longing for his old

school; and as suddenly, and with all the vividness of life,

there appeared before his vision the figure of Alexander

Petrovitch. He almost burst into tears as he beheld his

old master, and the room seemed to swim before his eyes,

and the tchinovniks and the desks to become a blur, and

his sight to grow dim. Then he thought to himself with an

effort: “No, no! I will apply myself to my work, however

petty it be at first.” And hardening his heart and recover-

ing his spirit, he determined then and there to perform

his duties in such a manner as should be an example to

the rest.

But where are compensations to be found? Even in St.

Petersburg, despite its grim and murky exterior, they ex-

ist. Yes, even though thirty degrees of keen, cracking frost

may have bound the streets, and the family of the North

Wind be wailing there, and the Snowstorm Witch have

heaped high the pavements, and be blinding the eyes, and

powdering beards and fur collars and the shaggy manes of

horses—even then there will be shining hospitably through

248

Dead Soulsthe swirling snowflakes a fourth-floor window where, in a

cosy room, and by the light of modest candles, and to the

hiss of the samovar, there will be in progress a discussion

which warms the heart and soul, or else a reading aloud of

a brilliant page of one of those inspired Russian poets

with whom God has dowered us, while the breast of each

member of the company is heaving with a rapture un-

known under a noontide sky.

Gradually, therefore, Tientietnikov grew more at home

in the Service. Yet never did it become, for him, the main

pursuit, the main object in life, which he had expected.

No, it remained but one of a secondary kind. That is to

say, it served merely to divide up his time, and enable him

the more to value his hours of leisure. Nevertheless, just

when his uncle was beginning to flatter himself that his

nephew was destined to succeed in the profession, the

said nephew elected to ruin his every hope. Thus it befell.

Tientietnikov’s friends (he had many) included among their

number a couple of fellows of the species known as “em-

bittered.” That is to say, though good-natured souls of

that curiously restless type which cannot endure injus-

tice, nor anything which it conceives to be such, they

were thoroughly unbalanced of conduct themselves, and,

while demanding general agreement with their views,

treated those of others with the scantiest of ceremony.

Nevertheless these two associates exercised upon

Tientietnikov—both by the fire of their eloquence and by

the form of their noble dissatisfaction with society—a

very strong influence; with the result that, through arous-

ing in him an innate tendency to nervous resentment,

they led him also to notice trifles which before had es-

caped his attention. An instance of this is seen in the fact

that he conceived against Thedor Thedorovitch Lienitsin,

Director of one of the Departments which was quartered

in the splendid range of offices before mentioned, a dis-

like which proved the cause of his discerning n the man a

host of hitherto unmarked imperfections. Above all things

did Tientietnikov take it into his head that, when con-

versing with his superiors, Lienitsin became, of the mo-

ment, a stick of luscious sweetmeat, but that, when con-

versing with his inferiors, he approximated more to a vin-

egar cruet. Certain it is that, like all petty-minded indi-

249

Gogolviduals, Lienitsin made a note of any one who failed to

offer him a greeting on festival days, and that he re-

venged himself upon any one whose visiting-card had not

been handed to his butler. Eventually the youth’s aversion

almost attained the point of hysteria; until he felt that,

come what might, he must insult the fellow in some fash-

ion. To that task he applied himself con amore; and so

thoroughly that he met with complete success. That is to

say, he seized on an occasion to address Lienitsin in such

fashion that the delinquent received notice either to apolo-

gies or to leave the Service; and when of these alterna-

tives he chose the latter his uncle came to him, and made

a terrified appeal. “For God’s sake remember what you are

doing!” he cried. “To think that, after beginning your

career so well, you should abandon it merely for the rea-

son that you have not fallen in with the sort of Director

whom you prefer! What do you mean by it, what do you

mean by it? Were others to regard things in the same way,

the Service would find itself without a single individual.

Reconsider your conduct—forego your pride and conceit,

and make Lienitsin amends.”

“But, dear Uncle,” the nephew replied, “that is not the

point. The point is, not that I should find an apology

difficult to offer, seeing that, since Lienitsin is my supe-

rior, and I ought not to have addressed him as I did, I am

clearly in the wrong. Rather, the point is the following. To

my charge there has been committed the performance of

another kind of service. That is to say, I am the owner of

three hundred peasant souls, a badly administered estate,

and a fool of a bailiff. That being so, whereas the State

will lose little by having to fill my stool with another

copyist, it will lose very much by causing three hundred

peasant souls to fail in the payment of their taxes. As I

say (how am I to put it?), I am a landowner who has

preferred to enter the Public Service. Now, should I em-

ploy myself henceforth in conserving, restoring, and im-

proving the fortunes of the souls whom God has entrusted

to my care, and thereby provide the State with three hun-

dred law-abiding, sober, hard-working taxpayers, how will

that service of mine rank as inferior to the service of a

department-directing fool like Lienitsin?”

On hearing this speech, the State Councillor could only

250

Dead Soulsgape, for he had not expected Tientietnikov’s torrent of

words. He reflected a few moments, and then murmured:

“Yes, but, but—but how can a man like you retire to

rustication in the country? What society will you get there?

Here one meets at least a general or a prince sometimes;

indeed, no matter whom you pass in the street, that per-

son represents gas lamps and European civilisation; but in

the country, no matter what part of it you are in, not a

soul is to be encountered save muzhiks and their women.

Why should you go and condemn yourself to a state of

vegetation like that?”

Nevertheless the uncle’s expostulations fell upon deaf

ears, for already the nephew was beginning to think of his

estate as a retreat of a type more likely to nourish the

intellectual faculties and afford the only profitable field

of activity. After unearthing one or two modern works on

agriculture, therefore, he, two weeks later, found himself

in the neighbourhood of the home where his boyhood had

been spent, and approaching the spot which never failed

to enthral the visitor or guest. And in the young man’s

breast there was beginning to palpitate a new feeling—in

the young man’s soul there were reawakening old, long-

concealed impressions; with the result that many a spot

which had long been faded from his memory now filled

him with interest, and the beautiful views on the estate

found him gazing at them like a newcomer, and with a

beating heart. Yes, as the road wound through a narrow

ravine, and became engulfed in a forest where, both above

and below, he saw three-centuries-old oaks which three

men could not have spanned, and where Siberian firs and

elms overtopped even the poplars, and as he asked the

peasants to tell him to whom the forest belonged, and

they replied, “To Tientietnikov,” and he issued from the

forest, and proceeded on his way through meadows, and

past spinneys of elder, and of old and young willows, and

arrived in sight of the distant range of hills, and, crossing

by two different bridges the winding river (which he left

successively to right and to left of him as he did so), he

again questioned some peasants concerning the owner-

ship of the meadows and the flooded lands, and was again

informed that they all belonged to Tientietnikov, and then,

ascending a rise, reached a tableland where, on one side,

251

Gogollay ungarnered fields of wheat and rye and barley, and, on

the other, the country already traversed (but which now

showed in shortened perspective), and then plunged into

the shade of some forked, umbrageous trees which stood

scattered over turf and extended to the manor-house it-

self, and caught glimpses of the carved huts of the peas-

ants, and of the red roofs of the stone manorial outbuild-

ings, and of the glittering pinnacles of the church, and

felt his heart beating, and knew, without being told by

any one, whither he had at length arrived—well, then the

feeling which had been growing within his soul burst forth,

and he cried in ecstasy:

“Why have I been a fool so long? Why, seeing that fate

has appointed me to be ruler of an earthly paradise, did I

prefer to bind myself in servitude as a scribe of lifeless

documents? To think that, after I had been nurtured and

schooled and stored with all the knowledge necessary for

the diffusion of good among those under me, and for the

improvement of my domain, and for the fulfilment of the

manifold duties of a landowner who is at once judge, ad-

ministrator, and constable of his people, I should have

entrusted my estate to an ignorant bailiff, and sought to

maintain an absentee guardianship over the affairs of serfs

whom I have never met, and of whose capabilities and

characters I am yet ignorant! To think that I should have

deemed true estate-management inferior to a documen-

tary, fantastical management of provinces which lie a thou-

sand versts away, and which my foot has never trod, and

where I could never have effected aught but blunders and

irregularities!”

Meanwhile another spectacle was being prepared for him.

On learning that the barin was approaching the mansion,

the muzhiks collected on the verandah in very variety of

picturesque dress and tonsure; and when these good folk

surrounded him, and there arose a resounding shout of

“Here is our Foster Father! He has remembered us!” and,

in spite of themselves, some of the older men and women

began weeping as they recalled his grandfather and great-

grandfather, he himself could not restrain his tears, but

reflected: “How much affection! And in return for what?

In return for my never having come to see them—in re-

turn for my never having taken the least interest in their

252

Dead Soulsaffairs!” And then and there he registered a mental vow toshare their every task and occupation.

So he applied himself to supervising and administering.He reduced the amount of the barstchina*, he decreasedthe number of working-days for the owner, and he aug-mented the sum of the peasants’ leisure-time. He alsodismissed the fool of a bailiff, and took to bearing a per-sonal hand in everything—to being present in the fields,at the threshing-floor, at the kilns, at the wharf, at thefreighting of barges and rafts, and at their conveyancedown the river: wherefore even the lazy hands began tolook to themselves. But this did not last long. The peas-ant is an observant individual, and Tientietnikov’s muzhikssoon scented the fact that, though energetic and desirousof doing much, the barin had no notion how to do it, noreven how to set about it—that, in short, he spoke by thebook rather than out of his personal knowledge. Conse-quently things resulted, not in master and men failing tounderstand one another, but in their not singing together,in their not producing the very same note.*In the days of serfdom, the rate of forced labour—somany hours or so many days per week—which the serfhad to perform for his proprietor.

That is to say, it was not long before Tientietnikov no-

ticed that on the manorial lands, nothing prospered to

the extent that it did on the peasants’. The manorial crops

were sown in good time, and came up well, and every one

appeared to work his best, so much so that Tientietnikov,

who supervised the whole, frequently ordered mugs of

vodka to be served out as a reward for the excellence of

the labour performed. Yet the rye on the peasants’ land

had formed into ear, and the oats had begun to shoot

their grain, and the millet had filled before, on the mano-

rial lands, the corn had so much as grown to stalk, or the

ears had sprouted in embryo. In short, gradually the barin

realised that, in spite of favours conferred, the peasants

were playing the rogue with him. Next he resorted to

remonstrance, but was met with the reply, “How could we

not do our best for our barin? You yourself saw how well

we laboured at the ploughing and the sowing, for you

gave us mugs of vodka for our pains.”

“Then why have things turned out so badly?” the barin

persisted.

“Who can say? It must be that a grub has eaten the

253

Gogolcrop from below. Besides, what a summer has it been—

never a drop of rain!”

Nevertheless, the barin noted that no grub had eaten

the peasants’ crops, as well as that the rain had fallen in

the most curious fashion—namely, in patches. It had

obliged the muzhiks, but had shed a mere sprinkling for

the barin.

Still more difficult did he find it to deal with the peas-

ant women. Ever and anon they would beg to be excused

from work, or start making complaints of the severity of

the barstchina. Indeed, they were terrible folk! However,

Tientietnikov abolished the majority of the tithes of linen,

hedge fruit, mushrooms, and nuts, and also reduced by

one-half other tasks proper to the women, in the hope

that they would devote their spare time to their own

domestic concerns—namely, to sewing and mending, and

to making clothes for their husbands, and to increasing

the area of their kitchen gardens. Yet no such result came

about. On the contrary, such a pitch did the idleness, the

quarrelsomeness, and the intriguing and caballing of the

fair sex attain that their helpmeets were for ever coming

to the barin with a request that he would rid one or an-

other of his wife, since she had become a nuisance, and to

live with her was impossible.

Next, hardening his heart, the barin attempted severity.

But of what avail was severity? The peasant woman re-

mained always the peasant woman, and would come and

whine that she was sick and ailing, and keep pitifully hug-

ging to herself the mean and filthy rags which she had

donned for the occasion. And when poor Tientietnikov

found himself unable to say more to her than just, “Get

out of my sight, and may the Lord go with you!” the next

item in the comedy would be that he would see her, even

as she was leaving his gates, fall to contending with a

neighbour for, say, the possession of a turnip, and dealing

out slaps in the face such as even a strong, healthy man

could scarcely have compassed!

Again, amongst other things, Tientietnikov conceived

the idea of establishing a school for his people; but the

scheme resulted in a farce which left him in sackcloth and

ashes. In the same way he found that, when it came to a

question of dispensing justice and of adjusting disputes,

254

Dead Soulsthe host of juridical subtleties with which the professors

had provided him proved absolutely useless. That is to

say, the one party lied, and the other party lied, and only

the devil could have decided between them. Consequently

he himself perceived that a knowledge of mankind would

have availed him more than all the legal refinements and

philosophical maxims in the world could do. He lacked

something; and though he could not divine what it was,

the situation brought about was the common one of the

barin failing to understand the peasant, and the peasant

failing to understand the barin, and both becoming disaf-

fected. In the end, these difficulties so chilled

Tientietnikov’s enthusiasm that he took to supervising the

labours of the field with greatly diminished attention.

That is to say, no matter whether the scythes were softly

swishing through the grass, or ricks were being built, or

rafts were being loaded, he would allow his eyes to wan-

der from his men, and to fall to gazing at, say, a red-

billed, red-legged heron which, after strutting along the

bank of a stream, would have caught a fish in its beak,

and be holding it awhile, as though in doubt whether to

swallow it. Next he would glance towards the spot where

a similar bird, but one not yet in possession of a fish, was

engaged in watching the doings of its mate. Lastly, with

eyebrows knitted, and face turned to scan the zenith, he

would drink in the smell of the fields, and fall to listening

to the winged population of the air as from earth and sky

alike the manifold music of winged creatures combined in

a single harmonious chorus. In the rye the quail would be

calling, and, in the grass, the corncrake, and over them

would be wheeling flocks of twittering linnets. Also, the

jacksnipe would be uttering its croak, and the lark ex-

ecuting its roulades where it had become lost in the sun-

shine, and cranes sending forth their trumpet-like chal-

lenge as they deployed towards the zenith in triangle-

shaped flocks. In fact, the neighbourhood would seem to

have become converted into one great concert of melody.

O Creator, how fair is Thy world where, in remote, rural

seclusion, it lies apart from cities and from highways!

But soon even this began to pall upon Tientietnikov,

and he ceased altogether to visit his fields, or to do aught

but shut himself up in his rooms, where he refused to

255

Gogolreceive even the bailiff when that functionary called with

his reports. Again, although, until now, he had to a cer-

tain extent associated with a retired colonel of hussars—

a man saturated with tobacco smoke—and also with a

student of pronounced, but immature, opinions who culled

the bulk of his wisdom from contemporary newspapers

and pamphlets, he found, as time went on, that these

companions proved as tedious as the rest, and came to

think their conversation superficial, and their European

method of comporting themselves—that is to say, the

method of conversing with much slapping of knees and a

great deal of bowing and gesticulation—too direct and

unadorned. So these and every one else he decided to

“drop,” and carried this resolution into effect with a cer-

tain amount of rudeness. On the next occasion that Varvar

Nikolaievitch Vishnepokromov called to indulge in a free-

and-easy symposium on politics, philosophy, literature,

morals, and the state of financial affairs in England (he

was, in all matters which admit of superficial discussion,

the pleasantest fellow alive, seeing that he was a typical

representative both of the retired fire-eater and of the

school of thought which is now becoming the rage)—

when, I say, this next happened, Tientietnikov merely sent

out to say that he was not at home, and then carefully

showed himself at the window. Host and guest exchanged

glances, and, while the one muttered through his teeth

“The cur!” the other relieved his feelings with a remark or

two on swine. Thus the acquaintance came to an abrupt

end, and from that time forth no visitor called at the

mansion.

Tientietnikov in no way regretted this, for he could now

devote himself wholly to the projection of a great work

on Russia. Of the scale on which this composition was

conceived the reader is already aware. The reader also knows

how strange, how unsystematic, was the system employed

in it. Yet to say that Tientietnikov never awoke from his

lethargy would not be altogether true. On the contrary,

when the post brought him newspapers and reviews, and

he saw in their printed pages, perhaps, the well-known

name of some former comrade who had succeeded in the

great field of Public Service, or had conferred upon sci-

ence and the world’s work some notable contribution, he

256

Dead Soulswould succumb to secret and suppressed grief, and invol-

untarily there would burst from his soul an expression of

aching, voiceless regret that he himself had done so little.

And at these times his existence would seem to him odi-

ous and repellent; at these times there would uprise be-

fore him the memory of his school days, and the figure of

Alexander Petrovitch, as vivid as in life. And, slowly well-

ing, the tears would course over Tientietnikov’s cheeks.

What meant these repinings? Was there not disclosed in

them the secret of his galling spiritual pain—the fact

that he had failed to order his life aright, to confirm the

lofty aims with which he had started his course; the fact

that, always poorly equipped with experience, he had failed

to attain the better and the higher state, and there to

strengthen himself for the overcoming of hindrances and

obstacles; the fact that, dissolving like overheated metal,

his bounteous store of superior instincts had failed to

take the final tempering; the fact that the tutor of his

boyhood, a man in a thousand, had prematurely died, and

left to Tientietnikov no one who could restore to him the

moral strength shattered by vacillation and the will power

weakened by want of virility—no one, in short, who could

cry hearteningly to his soul “Forward!”—the word for which

the Russian of every degree, of every class, of every occu-

pation, of every school of thought, is for ever hungering.

Indeed, where is the man who can cry aloud for any of

us, in the Russian tongue dear to our soul, the all-com-

pelling command “Forward!”? Who is there who, knowing

the strength and the nature and the inmost depths of the

Russian genius, can by a single magic incantation divert

our ideals to the higher life? Were there such a man, with

what tears, with what affection, would not the grateful

sons of Russia repay him! Yet age succeeds to age, and

our callow youth still lies wrapped in shameful sloth, or

strives and struggles to no purpose. God has not yet given

us the man able to sound the call.

One circumstance which almost aroused Tientietnikov,

which almost brought about a revolution in his character,

was the fact that he came very near to falling in love. Yet

even this resulted in nothing. Ten versts away there lived

the general whom we have heard expressing himself in

highly uncomplimentary terms concerning Tientietnikov.

257

GogolHe maintained a General-like establishment, dispensed

hospitality (that is to say, was glad when his neighbours

came to pay him their respects, though he himself never

went out), spoke always in a hoarse voice, read a certain

number of books, and had a daughter—a curious, unfa-

miliar type, but full of life as life itself. This maiden’s

name was Ulinka, and she had been strangely brought up,

for, losing her mother in early childhood, she had subse-

quently received instruction at the hands of an English

governess who knew not a single word of Russian. More-

over her father, though excessively fond of her, treated

her always as a toy; with the result that, as she grew to

years of discretion, she became wholly wayward and spoilt.

Indeed, had any one seen the sudden rage which would

gather on her beautiful young forehead when she was en-

gaged in a heated dispute with her father, he would have

thought her one of the most capricious beings in the world.

Yet that rage gathered only when she had heard of injus-

tice or harsh treatment, and never because she desired to

argue on her own behalf, or to attempt to justify her own

conduct. Also, that anger would disappear as soon as ever

she saw any one whom she had formerly disliked fall upon

evil times, and, at his first request for alms would, with-

out consideration or subsequent regret, hand him her purse

and its whole contents. Yes, her every act was strenuous,

and when she spoke her whole personality seemed to be

following hot-foot upon her thought—both her expres-

sion of face and her diction and the movements of her

hands. Nay, the very folds of her frock had a similar ap-

pearance of striving; until one would have thought that

all her self were flying in pursuit of her words. Nor did she

know reticence: before any one she would disclose her

mind, and no force could compel her to maintain silence

when she desired to speak. Also, her enchanting, peculiar

gait—a gait which belonged to her alone—was so abso-

lutely free and unfettered that every one involuntarily

gave her way. Lastly, in her presence churls seemed to

become confused and fall to silence, and even the rough-

est and most outspoken would lose their heads, and have

not a word to say; whereas the shy man would find him-

self able to converse as never in his life before, and would

feel, from the first, as though he had seen her and known

258

Dead Soulsher at some previous period—during the days of some

unremembered childhood, when he was at home, and

spending a merry evening among a crowd of romping chil-

dren. And for long afterwards he would feel as though his

man’s intellect and estate were a burden.

This was what now befell Tientietnikov; and as it did so

a new feeling entered into his soul, and his dreamy life

lightened for a moment.

At first the General used to receive him with hospitable

civility, but permanent concord between them proved

impossible; their conversation always merged into dissen-

sion and soreness, seeing that, while the General could

not bear to be contradicted or worsted in an argument,

Tientietnikov was a man of extreme sensitiveness. True,

for the daughter’s sake, the father was for a while deferred

to, and thus peace was maintained; but this lasted only

until the time when there arrived, on a visit to the Gen-

eral, two kinswomen of his—the Countess Bordirev and

the Princess Uziakin, retired Court dames, but ladies who

still kept up a certain connection with Court circles, and

therefore were much fawned upon by their host. No sooner

had they appeared on the scene than (so it seemed to

Tientietnikov) the General’s attitude towards the young

man became colder—either he ceased to notice him at all

or he spoke to him familiarly, and as to a person having

no standing in society. This offended Tientietnikov deeply,

and though, when at length he spoke out on the subject,

he retained sufficient presence of mind to compress his

lips, and to preserve a gentle and courteous tone, his face

flushed and his inner man was boiling.

“General,” he said, “I thank you for your condescen-

sion. By addressing me in the second person singular, you

have admitted me to the circle of your most intimate

friends. Indeed, were it not that a difference of years

forbids any familiarity on my part, I should answer you in

similar fashion.”

The General sat aghast. At length, rallying his tongue

and his faculties, he replied that, though he had spoken

with a lack of ceremony, he had used the term “thou”

merely as an elderly man naturally employs it towards a

junior (he made no reference to difference of rank).

Nevertheless, the acquaintance broke off here, and with

259

Gogolit any possibility of love-making. The light which had shed

a momentary gleam before Tientietnikov’s eyes had be-

come extinguished for ever, and upon it there followed a

darkness denser than before. Henceforth everything con-

duced to evolve the regime which the reader has noted—

that regime of sloth and inaction which converted

Tientietnikov’s residence into a place of dirt and neglect.

For days at a time would a broom and a heap of dust be

left lying in the middle of a room, and trousers tossing

about the salon, and pairs of worn-out braces adorning

the what-not near the sofa. In short, so mean and untidy

did Tientietnikov’s mode of life become, that not only his

servants, but even his very poultry ceased to treat him

with respect. Taking up a pen, he would spend hours in

idly sketching houses, huts, waggons, troikas, and flour-

ishes on a piece of paper; while at other times, when he

had sunk into a reverie, the pen would, all unknowingly,

sketch a small head which had delicate features, a pair of

quick, penetrating eyes, and a raised coiffure. Then sud-

denly the dreamer would perceive, to his surprise, that

the pen had executed the portrait of a maiden whose

picture no artist could adequately have painted; and there-

with his despondency would become greater than ever,

and, believing that happiness did not exist on earth, he

would relapse into increased ennui, increased neglect of

his responsibilities.

But one morning he noticed, on moving to the window

after breakfast, that not a word was proceeding either

from the butler or the housekeeper, but that, on the con-

trary, the courtyard seemed to smack of a certain bustle

and excitement. This was because through the entrance

gates (which the kitchen maid and the scullion had run to

open) there were appearing the noses of three horses—

one to the right, one in the middle, and one to the left,

after the fashion of triumphal groups of statuary. Above

them, on the box seat, were seated a coachman and a

valet, while behind, again, there could be discerned a

gentleman in a scarf and a fur cap. Only when the equi-

page had entered the courtyard did it stand revealed as a

light spring britchka. And as it came to a halt, there leapt

on to the verandah of the mansion an individual of re-

spectable exterior, and possessed of the art of moving

260

Dead Soulswith the neatness and alertness of a military man.

Upon this Tientietnikov’s heart stood still. He was un-

used to receiving visitors, and for the moment conceived

the new arrival to be a Government official, sent to ques-

tion him concerning an abortive society to which he had

formerly belonged. (Here the author may interpolate the

fact that, in Tientietnikov’s early days, the young man

had become mixed up in a very absurd affair. That is to

say, a couple of philosophers belonging to a regiment of

hussars had, together with an aesthete who had not yet

completed his student’s course and a gambler who had

squandered his all, formed a secret society of philanthropic

aims under the presidency of a certain old rascal of a

freemason and the ruined gambler aforesaid. The scope of

the society’s work was to be extensive: it was to bring

lasting happiness to humanity at large, from the banks of

the Thames to the shores of Kamtchatka. But for this

much money was needed: wherefore from the noble-minded

members of the society generous contributions were de-

manded, and then forwarded to a destination known only

to the supreme authorities of the concern. As for

Tientietnikov’s adhesion, it was brought about by the two

friends already alluded to as “embittered”—good-hearted

souls whom the wear and tear of their efforts on behalf of

science, civilisation, and the future emancipation of man-

kind had ended by converting into confirmed drunkards.

Perhaps it need hardly be said that Tientietnikov soon

discovered how things stood, and withdrew from the as-

sociation; but, meanwhile, the latter had had the misfor-

tune so to have engaged in dealings not wholly creditable

to gentlemen of noble origin as likewise to have become

entangled in dealings with the police. Consequently, it is

not to be wondered at that, though Tientietnikov had

long severed his connection with the society and its policy,

he still remained uneasy in his mind as to what might

even yet be the result.)

However, his fears vanished the instant that the guest

saluted him with marked politeness and explained, with

many deferential poises of the head, and in terms at once

civil and concise, that for some time past he (the new-

comer) had been touring the Russian Empire on business

and in the pursuit of knowledge, that the Empire abounded

261

Gogolin objects of interest—not to mention a plenitude of

manufactures and a great diversity of soil, and that, in

spite of the fact that he was greatly struck with the ameni-

ties of his host’s domain, he would certainly not have

presumed to intrude at such an inconvenient hour but for

the circumstance that the inclement spring weather, added

to the state of the roads, had necessitated sundry repairs

to his carriage at the hands of wheelwrights and black-

smiths. Finally he declared that, even if this last had NOT

happened, he would still have felt unable to deny himself

the pleasure of offering to his host that meed of homage

which was the latter’s due.

This speech—a speech of fascinating bonhomie—deliv-

ered, the guest executed a sort of shuffle with a half-boot

of patent leather studded with buttons of mother-of-pearl,

and followed that up by (in spite of his pronounced ro-

tundity of figure) stepping backwards with all the elan of

an india-rubber ball.

From this the somewhat reassured Tientietnikov con-

cluded that his visitor must be a literary, knowledge-seek-

ing professor who was engaged in roaming the country in

search of botanical specimens and fossils; wherefore he

hastened to express both his readiness to further the

visitor’s objects (whatever they might be) and his per-

sonal willingness to provide him with the requisite wheel-

wrights and blacksmiths. Meanwhile he begged his guest

to consider himself at home, and, after seating him in an

armchair, made preparations to listen to the newcomer’s

discourse on natural history.

But the newcomer applied himself, rather, to phenom-

ena of the internal world, saying that his life might be

likened to a barque tossed on the crests of perfidious

billows, that in his time he had been fated to play many

parts, and that on more than one occasion his life had

stood in danger at the hands of foes. At the same time,

these tidings were communicated in a manner calculated

to show that the speaker was also a man of practical

capabilities. In conclusion, the visitor took out a cambric

pocket-handkerchief, and sneezed into it with a vehe-

mence wholly new to Tientietnikov’s experience. In fact,

the sneeze rather resembled the note which, at times, the

trombone of an orchestra appears to utter not so much

262

Dead Soulsfrom its proper place on the platform as from the imme-

diate neighbourhood of the listener’s ear. And as the ech-

oes of the drowsy mansion resounded to the report of the

explosion there followed upon the same a wave of per-

fume, skilfully wafted abroad with a flourish of the eau-

de-Cologne-scented handkerchief.

By this time the reader will have guessed that the visi-

tor was none other than our old and respected friend Paul

Ivanovitch Chichikov. Naturally, time had not spared him

his share of anxieties and alarms; wherefore his exterior

had come to look a trifle more elderly, his frockcoat had

taken on a suggestion of shabbiness, and britchka, coach-

man, valet, horses, and harness alike had about them a

sort of second-hand, worse-for-wear effect. Evidently the

Chichikovian finances were not in the most flourishing of

conditions. Nevertheless, the old expression of face, the

old air of breeding and refinement, remained unimpaired,

and our hero had even improved in the art of walking and

turning with grace, and of dexterously crossing one leg

over the other when taking a seat. Also, his mildness of

diction, his discreet moderation of word and phrase, sur-

vived in, if anything, increased measure, and he bore

himself with a skill which caused his tactfulness to sur-

pass itself in sureness of aplomb. And all these accom-

plishments had their effect further heightened by a snowy

immaculateness of collar and dickey, and an absence of

dust from his frockcoat, as complete as though he had

just arrived to attend a nameday festival. Lastly, his

cheeks and chin were of such neat clean-shavenness that

no one but a blind man could have failed to admire their

rounded contours.

From that moment onwards great changes took place in

Tientietnikov’s establishment, and certain of its rooms as-

sumed an unwonted air of cleanliness and order. The rooms

in question were those assigned to Chichikov, while one

other apartment—a little front chamber opening into the

hall—became permeated with Petrushka’s own peculiar

smell. But this lasted only for a little while, for presently

Petrushka was transferred to the servants’ quarters, a course

which ought to have been adopted in the first instance.

During the initial days of Chichikov’s sojourn,

Tientietnikov feared rather to lose his independence, inas-

263

Gogolmuch as he thought that his guest might hamper his

movements, and bring about alterations in the established

routine of the place. But these fears proved groundless,

for Paul Ivanovitch displayed an extraordinary aptitude

for accommodating himself to his new position. To begin

with, he encouraged his host in his philosophical inertia

by saying that the latter would help Tientietnikov to be-

come a centenarian. Next, in the matter of a life of isola-

tion, he hit things off exactly by remarking that such a

life bred in a man a capacity for high thinking. Lastly, as

he inspected the library and dilated on books in general,

he contrived an opportunity to observe that literature

safeguarded a man from a tendency to waste his time. In

short, the few words of which he delivered himself were

brief, but invariably to the point. And this discretion of

speech was outdone by his discretion of conduct. That is

to say, whether entering or leaving the room, he never

wearied his host with a question if Tientietnikov had the

air of being disinclined to talk; and with equal satisfac-

tion the guest could either play chess or hold his tongue.

Consequently Tientietnikov said to himself:

“For the first time in my life I have met with a man with

whom it is possible to live. In general, not many of the

type exist in Russia, and, though clever, good-humoured,

well-educated men abound, one would be hard put to it

to find an individual of equable temperament with whom

one could share a roof for centuries without a quarrel

arising. Anyway, Chichikov is the first of his sort that I

have met.”

For his part, Chichikov was only too delighted to reside

with a person so quiet and agreeable as his host. Of a

wandering life he was temporarily weary, and to rest, even

for a month, in such a beautiful spot, and in sight of

green fields and the slow flowering of spring, was likely to

benefit him also from the hygienic point of view. And,

indeed, a more delightful retreat in which to recuperate

could not possibly have been found. The spring, long re-

tarded by previous cold, had now begun in all its comeli-

ness, and life was rampant. Already, over the first emerald

of the grass, the dandelion was showing yellow, and the

red-pink anemone was hanging its tender head; while the

surface of every pond was a swarm of dancing gnats and

264

Dead Soulsmidges, and the water-spider was being joined in their

pursuit by birds which gathered from every quarter to the

vantage-ground of the dry reeds. Every species of creature

also seemed to be assembling in concourse, and taking

stock of one another. Suddenly the earth became popu-

lous, the forest had opened its eyes, and the meadows

were lifting up their voice in song. In the same way had

choral dances begun to be weaved in the village, and ev-

erywhere that the eye turned there was merriment. What

brightness in the green of nature, what freshness in the

air, what singing of birds in the gardens of the mansion,

what general joy and rapture and exaltation! Particularly

in the village might the shouting and singing have been in

honour of a wedding!

Chichikov walked hither, thither, and everywhere—a pur-

suit for which there was ample choice and facility. At one

time he would direct his steps along the edge of the flat

tableland, and contemplate the depths below, where still

there lay sheets of water left by the floods of winter, and

where the island-like patches of forest showed leafless

boughs; while at another time he would plunge into the

thicket and ravine country, where nests of birds weighted

branches almost to the ground, and the sky was darkened

with the criss-cross flight of cawing rooks. Again, the

drier portions of the meadows could be crossed to the

river wharves, whence the first barges were just beginning

to set forth with pea-meal and barley and wheat, while at

the same time one’s ear would be caught with the sound

of some mill resuming its functions as once more the

water turned the wheel. Chichikov would also walk afield

to watch the early tillage operations of the season, and

observe how the blackness of a new furrow would make its

way across the expanse of green, and how the sower, rhyth-

mically striking his hand against the pannier slung across

his breast, would scatter his fistfuls of seed with equal

distribution, apportioning not a grain too much to one

side or to the other.

In fact, Chichikov went everywhere. He chatted and

talked, now with the bailiff, now with a peasant, now

with a miller, and inquired into the manner and nature of

everything, and sought information as to how an estate

was managed, and at what price corn was selling, and

265

Gogolwhat species of grain was best for spring and autumn

grinding, and what was the name of each peasant, and

who were his kinsfolk, and where he had bought his cow,

and what he fed his pigs on. Chichikov also made inquiry

concerning the number of peasants who had lately died:

but of these there appeared to be few. And suddenly his

quick eye discerned that Tientietnikov’s estate was not

being worked as it might have been—that much neglect

and listlessness and pilfering and drunkenness was abroad;

and on perceiving this, he thought to himself: “What a

fool is that Tientietnikov! To think of letting a property

like this decay when he might be drawing from it an in-

come of fifty thousand roubles a year!”

Also, more than once, while taking these walks, our

hero pondered the idea of himself becoming a landowner—

not now, of course, but later, when his chief aim should

have been achieved, and he had got into his hands the

necessary means for living the quiet life of the proprietor

of an estate. Yes, and at these times there would include

itself in his castle-building the figure of a young, fresh,

fair-faced maiden of the mercantile or other rich grade of

society, a woman who could both play and sing. He also

dreamed of little descendants who should perpetuate the

name of Chichikov; perhaps a frolicsome little boy and a

fair young daughter, or possibly, two boys and quite two

or three daughters; so that all should know that he had

really lived and had his being, that he had not merely

roamed the world like a spectre or a shadow; so that for

him and his the country should never be put to shame.

And from that he would go on to fancy that a title ap-

pended to his rank would not be a bad thing—the title of

State Councillor, for instance, which was deserving of all

honour and respect. Ah, it is a common thing for a man

who is taking a solitary walk so to detach himself from

the irksome realities of the present that he is able to stir

and to excite and to provoke his imagination to the con-

ception of things he knows can never really come to pass!

Chichikov’s servants also found the mansion to their taste,

and, like their master, speedily made themselves at home

in it. In particular did Petrushka make friends with Grigory

the butler, although at first the pair showed a tendency

to outbrag one another—Petrushka beginning by throw-

266

Dead Soulsing dust in Grigory’s eyes on the score of his (Petrushka’s)

travels, and Grigory taking him down a peg or two by

referring to St. Petersburg (a city which Petrushka had

never visited), and Petrushka seeking to recover lost ground

by dilating on towns which he had visited, and Grigory

capping this by naming some town which is not to be

found on any map in existence, and then estimating the

journey thither as at least thirty thousand versts—a state-

ment which would so completely flabbergast the hench-

man of Chichikov’s suite that he would be left staring

open-mouthed, amid the general laughter of the domes-

tic staff. However, as I say, the pair ended by swearing

eternal friendship with one another, and making a prac-

tice of resorting to the village tavern in company.

For Selifan, however, the place had a charm of a differ-

ent kind. That is to say, each evening there would take

place in the village a singing of songs and a weaving of

country dances; and so shapely and buxom were the maid-

ens—maidens of a type hard to find in our present-day

villages on large estates—that he would stand for hours

wondering which of them was the best. White-necked and

white-bosomed, all had great roving eyes, the gait of pea-

cocks, and hair reaching to the waist. And as, with his

hands clasping theirs, he glided hither and thither in the

dance, or retired backwards towards a wall with a row of

other young fellows, and then, with them, returned to

meet the damsels—all singing in chorus (and laughing as

they sang it), “Boyars, show me my bridegroom!” and

dusk was falling gently, and from the other side of the

river there kept coming far, faint, plaintive echoes of the

melody—well, then our Selifan hardly knew whether he

were standing upon his head or his heels. Later, when

sleeping and when waking, both at noon and at twilight,

he would seem still to be holding a pair of white hands,

and moving in the dance.

Chichikov’s horses also found nothing of which to disap-

prove. Yes, both the bay, the Assessor, and the skewbald

accounted residence at Tientietnikov’s a most comfort-

able affair, and voted the oats excellent, and the arrange-

ment of the stables beyond all cavil. True, on this occa-

sion each horse had a stall to himself; yet, by looking

over the intervening partition, it was possible always to

267

Gogolsee one’s fellows, and, should a neighbour take it into his

head to utter a neigh, to answer it at once.

As for the errand which had hitherto led Chichikov to

travel about Russia, he had now decided to move very

cautiously and secretly in the matter. In fact, on noticing

that Tientietnikov went in absorbedly for reading and for

talking philosophy, the visitor said to himself, “No—I

had better begin at the other end,” and proceeded first to

feel his way among the servants of the establishment.

From them he learnt several things, and, in particular,

that the barin had been wont to go and call upon a cer-

tain General in the neighbourhood, and that the General

possessed a daughter, and that she and Tientietnikov had

had an affair of some sort, but that the pair had subse-

quently parted, and gone their several ways. For that

matter, Chichikov himself had noticed that Tientietnikov

was in the habit of drawing heads of which each represen-

tation exactly resembled the rest.

Once, as he sat tapping his silver snuff-box after lun-

cheon, Chichikov remarked:

“One thing you lack, and only one, Andrei Ivanovitch.”

“What is that?” asked his host.

“A female friend or two,” replied Chichikov.

Tientietnikov made no rejoinder, and the conversation

came temporarily to an end.

But Chichikov was not to be discouraged; wherefore,

while waiting for supper and talking on different subjects,

he seized an opportunity to interject:

“Do you know, it would do you no harm to marry.”

As before, Tientietnikov did not reply, and the renewed

mention of the subject seemed to have annoyed him.

For the third time—it was after supper—Chichikov re-

turned to the charge by remarking:

“To-day, as I was walking round your property, I could

not help thinking that marriage would do you a great deal

of good. Otherwise you will develop into a hypochon-

driac.”

Whether Chichikov’s words now voiced sufficiently the

note of persuasion, or whether Tientietnikov happened, at

the moment, to be unusually disposed to frankness, at all

events the young landowner sighed, and then responded

as he expelled a puff of tobacco smoke:

268

Dead Souls“To attain anything, Paul Ivanovitch, one needs to have

been born under a lucky star.”

And he related to his guest the whole history of his ac-

quaintanceship and subsequent rupture with the General.

As Chichikov listened to the recital, and gradually realised

that the affair had arisen merely out of a chance word on

the General’s part, he was astounded beyond measure,

and gazed at Tientietnikov without knowing what to make

of him.

“Andrei Ivanovitch,” he said at length, “what was there

to take offence at?”

“Nothing, as regards the actual words spoken,” replied

the other. “The offence lay, rather, in the insult conveyed

in the General’s tone.” Tientietnikov was a kindly and peace-

able man, yet his eyes flashed as he said this, and his

voice vibrated with wounded feeling.

“Yet, even then, need you have taken it so much amiss?”

“What? Could I have gone on visiting him as before?”

“Certainly. No great harm had been done?”

“I disagree with you. Had he been an old man in a

humble station of life, instead of a proud and swaggering

officer, I should not have minded so much. But, as it was,

I could not, and would not, brook his words.”

“A curious fellow, this Tientietnikov!” thought Chichikov

to himself.

“A curious fellow, this Chichikov!” was Tientietnikov’s

inward reflection.

“I tell you what,” resumed Chichikov. “To-morrow I my-

self will go and see the General.”

“To what purpose?” asked Tientietnikov, with astonish-

ment and distrust in his eyes.

“To offer him an assurance of my personal respect.”

“A strange fellow, this Chichikov!” reflected Tientietnikov.

“A strange fellow, this Tientietnikov!” thought Chichikov,

and then added aloud: “Yes, I will go and see him at ten

o’clock to-morrow; but since my britchka is not yet alto-

gether in travelling order, would you be so good as to

lend me your koliaska for the purpose?”

269

GogolCHAPTER II

Tientietnikov’s good horses covered the ten versts to the

General’s house in a little over half an hour. Descending

from the koliaska with features attuned to deference,

Chichikov inquired for the master of the house, and was at

once ushered into his presence. Bowing with head held

respectfully on one side and hands extended like those of

a waiter carrying a trayful of teacups, the visitor inclined

his whole body forward, and said:

“I have deemed it my duty to present myself to your

Excellency. I have deemed it my duty because in my heart

I cherish a most profound respect for the valiant men

who, on the field of battle, have proved the saviours of

their country.”

That this preliminary attack did not wholly displease

the General was proved by the fact that, responding with

a gracious inclination of the head, he replied:

“I am glad to make your acquaintance. Pray be so good

as to take a seat. In what capacity or capacities have you

yourself seen service?”

“Of my service,” said Chichikov, depositing his form,

not exactly in the centre of the chair, but rather on one

side of it, and resting a hand upon one of its arms, “—of

my service the scene was laid, in the first instance, in the

Treasury; while its further course bore me successively

into the employ of the Public Buildings Commission, of

the Customs Board, and of other Government Offices. But,

throughout, my life has resembled a barque tossed on the

crests of perfidious billows. In suffering I have been

swathed and wrapped until I have come to be, as it were,

suffering personified; while of the extent to which my life

has been sought by foes, no words, no colouring, no (if I

may so express it?) painter’s brush could ever convey to

you an adequate idea. And now, at length, in my declin-

ing years, I am seeking a corner in which to eke out the

remainder of my miserable existence, while at the present

moment I am enjoying the hospitality of a neighbour of

your acquaintance.”

“And who is that?”

“Your neighbour Tientietnikov, your Excellency.”

Upon that the General frowned.

270

Dead Souls“Led me add,” put in Chichikov hastily, “that he greatly

regrets that on a former occasion he should have failed to

show a proper respect for—for—”

“For what?” asked the General.

“For the services to the public which your Excellency

has rendered. Indeed, he cannot find words to express his

sorrow, but keeps repeating to himself: ‘Would that I had

valued at their true worth the men who have saved our

fatherland!’”

“And why should he say that?” asked the mollified Gen-

eral. “I bear him no grudge. In fact, I have never cher-

ished aught but a sincere liking for him, a sincere esteem,

and do not doubt but that, in time, he may become a

useful member of society.”

“In the words which you have been good enough to

utter,” said Chichikov with a bow, “there is embodied much

justice. Yes, Tientietnikov is in very truth a man of worth.

Not only does he possess the gift of eloquence, but also

he is a master of the pen.”

“Ah, yes; he does write rubbish of some sort, doesn’t

he? Verses, or something of the kind?”

“Not rubbish, your Excellency, but practical stuff. In

short, he is inditing a history.”

“A history? But a history of what?”

“A history of, of—” For a moment or two Chichikov

hesitated. Then, whether because it was a General that

was seated in front of him, or because he desired to im-

part greater importance to the subject which he was about

to invent, he concluded: “A history of Generals, your Ex-

cellency.”

“Of Generals? Of what Generals?”

“Of Generals generally—of Generals at large. That is to

say, and to be more precise, a history of the Generals of

our fatherland.”

By this time Chichikov was floundering badly. Mentally

he spat upon himself and reflected: “Gracious heavens!

What rubbish I am talking!”

“Pardon me,” went on his interlocutor, “but I do not

quite understand you. Is Tientietnikov producing a his-

tory of a given period, or only a history made up of a

series of biographies? Also, is he including all our Gener-

als, or only those who took part in the campaign of 1812?”

271

Gogol“The latter, your Excellency—only the Generals of 1812,”

replied Chichikov. Then he added beneath his breath: “Were

I to be killed for it, I could not say what that may be

supposed to mean.”

“Then why should he not come and see me in person?”

went on his host. “Possibly I might be able to furnish him

with much interesting material?”

“He is afraid to come, your Excellency.”

“Nonsense! Just because of a hasty word or two! I am

not that sort of man at all. In fact, I should be very

happy to call upon him.”

“Never would he permit that, your Excellency. He would

greatly prefer to be the first to make advances.” And

Chichikov added to himself: “What a stroke of luck those

Generals were! Otherwise, the Lord knows where my tongue

might have landed me!”

At this moment the door into the adjoining room opened,

and there appeared in the doorway a girl as fair as a ray of

the sun—so fair, indeed, that Chichikov stared at her in

amazement. Apparently she had come to speak to her

father for a moment, but had stopped short on perceiving

that there was some one with him. The only fault to be

found in her appearance was the fact that she was too

thin and fragile-looking.

“May I introduce you to my little pet?” said the General

to Chichikov. “To tell you the truth, I do not know your

name.”

“That you should be unacquainted with the name of

one who has never distinguished himself in the manner

of which you yourself can boast is scarcely to be won-

dered at.” And Chichikov executed one of his sidelong,

deferential bows.

“Well, I should be delighted to know it.”

“It is Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov, your Excellency.” With

that went the easy bow of a military man and the agile

backward movement of an india-rubber ball.

“Ulinka, this is Paul Ivanovitch,” said the General, turn-

ing to his daughter. “He has just told me some interesting

news—namely, that our neighbour Tientietnikov is not

altogether the fool we had at first thought him. On the

contrary, he is engaged upon a very important work—

upon a history of the Russian Generals of 1812.”

272

Dead Souls“But who ever supposed him to be a fool?” asked the

girl quickly. “What happened was that you took

Vishnepokromov’s word—the word of a man who is him-

self both a fool and a good-for-nothing.”

“Well, well,” said the father after further good-natured

dispute on the subject of Vishnepokromov. “Do you now

run away, for I wish to dress for luncheon. And you, sir,”

he added to Chichikov, “will you not join us at table?”

Chichikov bowed so low and so long that, by the time

that his eyes had ceased to see nothing but his own boots,

the General’s daughter had disappeared, and in her place

was standing a bewhiskered butler, armed with a silver

soap-dish and a hand-basin.

“Do you mind if I wash in your presence?” asked the

host.

“By no means,” replied Chichikov. “Pray do whatsoever

you please in that respect.”

Upon that the General fell to scrubbing himself—inci-

dentally, to sending soapsuds flying in every direction.

Meanwhile he seemed so favourably disposed that Chichikov

decided to sound him then and there, more especially

since the butler had left the room.

“May I put to you a problem?” he asked.

“Certainly,” replied the General. “What is it?”

“It is this, your Excellency. I have a decrepit old uncle

who owns three hundred souls and two thousand roubles-

worth of other property. Also, except for myself, he pos-

sesses not a single heir. Now, although his infirm state of

health will not permit of his managing his property in

person, he will not allow me either to manage it. And the

reason for his conduct—his very strange conduct—he

states as follows: ‘I do not know my nephew, and very

likely he is a spendthrift. If he wishes to show me that he

is good for anything, let him go and acquire as many

souls as I have acquired; and when he has done that I will

transfer to him my three hundred souls as well.”

“The man must be an absolute fool,” commented the

General.

“Possibly. And were that all, things would not be as bad

as they are. But, unfortunately, my uncle has gone and

taken up with his housekeeper, and has had children by

her. Consequently, everything will now pass to them.”

273

Gogol“The old man must have taken leave of his senses,”

remarked the General. “Yet how I can help you I fail to

see.”

“Well, I have thought of a plan. If you will hand me

over all the dead souls on your estate—hand them over

to me exactly as though they were still alive, and were

purchasable property—I will offer them to the old man,

and then he will leave me his fortune.”

At this point the General burst into a roar of laughter

such as few can ever have heard. Half-dressed, he sub-

sided into a chair, threw back his head, and guffawed

until he came near to choking. In fact, the house shook

with his merriment, so much so that the butler and his

daughter came running into the room in alarm.

It was long before he could produce a single articulate

word; and even when he did so (to reassure his daughter

and the butler) he kept momentarily relapsing into splut-

tering chuckles which made the house ring and ring again.

Chichikov was greatly taken aback.

“Oh, that uncle!” bellowed the General in paroxysms of

mirth. “Oh, that blessed uncle! What a fool he’ll look! Ha,

ha, ha! Dead souls offered him instead of live ones! Oh,

my goodness!”

“I suppose I’ve put my foot in it again,” ruefully re-

flected Chichikov. “But, good Lord, what a man the fellow

is to laugh! Heaven send that he doesn’t burst of it!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” broke out the General afresh. “What a

donkey the old man must be! To think of his saying to

you: ‘You go and fit yourself out with three hundred souls,

and I’ll cap them with my own lot’! My word! What a

jackass!”

“A jackass, your Excellency?”

“Yes, indeed! And to think of the jest of putting him off

with dead souls! Ha, ha, ha! What wouldn’t I give to see

you handing him the title deeds? Who is he? What is he

like? Is he very old?”

“He is eighty, your Excellency.”

“But still brisk and able to move about, eh? Surely he

must be pretty strong to go on living with his house-

keeper like that?”

“Yes. But what does such strength mean? Sand runs

away, your Excellency.”

274

Dead Souls“The old fool! But is he really such a fool?”

“Yes, your Excellency.”

“And does he go out at all? Does he see company? Can

he still hold himself upright?”

“Yes, but with great difficulty.”

“And has he any teeth left?”

“No more than two at the most.”

“The old jackass! Don’t be angry with me, but I must

say that, though your uncle, he is also a jackass.”

“Quite so, your Excellency. And though it grieves me to

have to confess that he is my uncle, what am I to do with

him?”

Yet this was not altogether the truth. What would have

been a far harder thing for Chichikov to have confessed

was the fact that he possessed no uncles at all.

“I beg of you, your Excellency,” he went on, “to hand

me over those, those—”

“Those dead souls, eh? Why, in return for the jest I will

give you some land as well. Yes, you can take the whole

graveyard if you like. Ha, ha, ha! The old man! Ha, ha, ha!

What a fool he’ll look! Ha, ha, ha!”

And once more the General’s guffaws went ringing

through the house.

[At this point there is a long hiatus in the original.]

275

GogolCHAPTER III

“If Colonel Koshkarev should turn out to be as mad as the

last one it is a bad look-out,” said Chichikov to himself on

opening his eyes amid fields and open country—every-

thing else having disappeared save the vault of heaven

and a couple of low-lying clouds.

“Selifan,” he went on, “did you ask how to get to Colo-

nel Koshkarev’s?”

“Yes, Paul Ivanovitch. At least, there was such a clatter

around the koliaska that I could not; but Petrushka asked

the coachman.”

“You fool! How often have I told you not to rely on

Petrushka? Petrushka is a blockhead, an idiot. Besides, at

the present moment I believe him to be drunk.”

“No, you are wrong, barin,” put in the person referred

to, turning his head with a sidelong glance. “After we get

down the next hill we shall need but to keep bending

round it. That is all.”

“Yes, and I suppose you’ll tell me that sivnkha is the

only thing that has passed your lips? Well, the view at

least is beautiful. In fact, when one has seen this place

one may say that one has seen one of the beauty spots of

Europe.” This said, Chichikov added to himself, smoothing

his chin: “What a difference between the features of a

civilised man of the world and those of a common lacquey!”

Meanwhile the koliaska quickened its pace, and Chichikov

once more caught sight of Tientietnikov’s aspen-studded

meadows. Undulating gently on elastic springs, the ve-

hicle cautiously descended the steep incline, and then

proceeded past water-mills, rumbled over a bridge or two,

and jolted easily along the rough-set road which traversed

the flats. Not a molehill, not a mound jarred the spine.

The vehicle was comfort itself.

Swiftly there flew by clumps of osiers, slender elder trees,

and silver-leaved poplars, their branches brushing against

Selifan and Petrushka, and at intervals depriving the valet

of his cap. Each time that this happened, the sullen-faced

servitor fell to cursing both the tree responsible for the

occurrence and the landowner responsible for the tree being

in existence; yet nothing would induce him thereafter ei-

ther to tie on the cap or to steady it with his hand, so

276

Dead Soulscomplete was his assurance that the accident would never

be repeated. Soon to the foregoing trees there became

added an occasional birch or spruce fir, while in the dense

undergrowth around their roots could be seen the blue

iris and the yellow wood-tulip. Gradually the forest grew

darker, as though eventually the obscurity would become

complete. Then through the trunks and the boughs there

began to gleam points of light like glittering mirrors, and

as the number of trees lessened, these points grew larger,

until the travellers debouched upon the shore of a lake

four versts or so in circumference, and having on its fur-

ther margin the grey, scattered log huts of a peasant vil-

lage. In the water a great commotion was in progress. In

the first place, some twenty men, immersed to the knee,

to the breast, or to the neck, were dragging a large fish-

ing-net inshore, while, in the second place, there was en-

tangled in the same, in addition to some fish, a stout

man shaped precisely like a melon or a hogshead. Greatly

excited, he was shouting at the top of his voice: “Let

Kosma manage it, you lout of a Denis! Kosma, take the

end of the rope from Denis! Don’t bear so hard on it,

Thoma Bolshoy*! Go where Thoma Menshov** is! Damn

it, bring the net to land, will you!” From this it became

clear that it was not on his own account that the stout

man was worrying. Indeed, he had no need to do so, since

his fat would in any case have prevented him from sink-

ing. Yes, even if he had turned head over heels in an effort

to dive, the water would persistently have borne him up;

and the same if, say, a couple of men had jumped on his

back—the only result would have been that he would

have become a trifle deeper submerged, and forced to

draw breath by spouting bubbles through his nose. No,

the cause of his agitation was lest the net should break,

and the fish escape: wherefore he was urging some addi-

tional peasants who were standing on the bank to lay hold

of and to pull at, an extra rope or two.

“That must be the barin—Colonel Koshkarev,” said

Selifan.

“Why?” asked Chichikov.

“Because, if you please, his skin is whiter than the rest,

and he has the respectable paunch of a gentleman.”

*The Elder.**The Younger.

277

GogolMeanwhile good progress was being made with the haul-

ing in of the barin; until, feeling the ground with his feet,

he rose to an upright position, and at the same moment

caught sight of the koliaska, with Chichikov seated therein,

descending the declivity.

“Have you dined yet?” shouted the barin as, still en-

tangled in the net, he approached the shore with a huge

fish on his back. With one hand shading his eyes from the

sun, and the other thrown backwards, he looked, in point

of pose, like the Medici Venus emerging from her bath.

“No,” replied Chichikov, raising his cap, and executing a

series of bows.

“Then thank God for that,” rejoined the gentleman.

“Why?” asked Chichikov with no little curiosity, and still

holding his cap over his head.

“Because of this. Cast off the net, Thoma Menshov, and

pick up that sturgeon for the gentleman to see. Go and

help him, Telepen Kuzma.”

With that the peasants indicated picked up by the head

what was a veritable monster of a fish.

“Isn’t it a beauty—a sturgeon fresh run from the river?”

exclaimed the stout barin. “And now let us be off home.

Coachman, you can take the lower road through the kitchen

garden. Run, you lout of a Thoma Bolshoy, and open the

gate for him. He will guide you to the house, and I myself

shall be along presently.”

Thereupon the barelegged Thoma Bolshoy, clad in noth-

ing but a shirt, ran ahead of the koliaska through the

village, every hut of which had hanging in front of it a

variety of nets, for the reason that every inhabitant of the

place was a fisherman. Next, he opened a gate into a large

vegetable enclosure, and thence the koliaska emerged into

a square near a wooden church, with, showing beyond the

latter, the roofs of the manorial homestead.

“A queer fellow, that Koshkarev!” said Chichikov to him-

self.

“Well, whatever I may be, at least I’m here,” said a

voice by his side. Chichikov looked round, and perceived

that, in the meanwhile, the barin had dressed himself and

overtaken the carriage. With a pair of yellow trousers he

was wearing a grass-green jacket, and his neck was as

guiltless of a collar as Cupid’s. Also, as he sat sideways in

278

Dead Soulshis drozhki, his bulk was such that he completely filled

the vehicle. Chichikov was about to make some remark or

another when the stout gentleman disappeared; and pres-

ently his drozhki re-emerged into view at the spot where

the fish had been drawn to land, and his voice could be

heard reiterating exhortations to his serfs. Yet when

Chichikov reached the verandah of the house he found, to

his intense surprise, the stout gentleman waiting to wel-

come the visitor. How he had contrived to convey himself

thither passed Chichikov’s comprehension. Host and guest

embraced three times, according to a bygone custom of

Russia. Evidently the barin was one of the old school.

“I bring you,” said Chichikov, “a greeting from his Ex-

cellency.”

“From whom?”

“From your relative General Alexander Dmitrievitch.”

“Who is Alexander Dmitrievitch?”

“What? You do not know General Alexander Dmitrievitch

Betrishev?” exclaimed Chichikov with a touch of surprise.

“No, I do not,” replied the gentleman.

Chichikov’s surprise grew to absolute astonishment.

“How comes that about?” he ejaculated. “I hope that I

have the honour of addressing Colonel Koshkarev?”

“Your hopes are vain. It is to my house, not to his, that

you have come; and I am Peter Petrovitch Pietukh—yes,

Peter Petrovitch Pietukh.”

Chichikov, dumbfounded, turned to Selifan and Petrushka.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “I told you to drive

to the house of Colonel Koshkarev, whereas you have

brought me to that of Peter Petrovitch Pietukh.”

“All the same, your fellows have done quite right,” put

in the gentleman referred to. “Do you” (this to Selifan

and Petrushka) “go to the kitchen, where they will give

you a glassful of vodka apiece. Then put up the horses,

and be off to the servants’ quarters.”

“I regret the mistake extremely,” said Chichikov.

“But it is not a mistake. When you have tried the dinner

which I have in store for you, just see whether you think

it a mistake. Enter, I beg of you.” And, taking Chichikov

by the arm, the host conducted him within, where they

were met by a couple of youths.

“Let me introduce my two sons, home for their holidays

279

Gogolfrom the Gymnasium*,” said Pietukh. “Nikolasha, come

and entertain our good visitor, while you, Aleksasha, fol-

low me.” And with that the host disappeared.

Chichikov turned to Nikolasha, whom he found to be a

budding man about town, since at first he opened a con-

versation by stating that, as no good was to be derived

from studying at a provincial institution, he and his brother

desired to remove, rather, to St. Petersburg, the provinces

not being worth living in.

“I quite understand,” Chichikov thought to himself. “The

end of the chapter will be confectioners’ assistants and

the boulevards.”

“Tell me,” he added aloud, “how does your father’s prop-

erty at present stand?”

“It is all mortgaged,” put in the father himself as he re-

entered the room. “Yes, it is all mortgaged, every bit of it.”

“What a pity!” thought Chichikov. “At this rate it will

not be long before this man has no property at all left. I

must hurry my departure.” Aloud he said with an air of

sympathy: “That you have mortgaged the estate seems to

me a matter of regret.”

“No, not at all,” replied Pietukh. “In fact, they tell me

that it is a good thing to do, and that every one else is

doing it. Why should I act differently from my neighbours?

Moreover, I have had enough of living here, and should like

to try Moscow—more especially since my sons are always

begging me to give them a metropolitan education.”

“Oh, the fool, the fool!” reflected Chichikov. “He is for

throwing up everything and making spendthrifts of his

sons. Yet this is a nice property, and it is clear that the

local peasants are doing well, and that the family, too, is

comfortably off. On the other hand, as soon as ever these

lads begin their education in restaurants and theatres, the

devil will away with every stick of their substance. For my

own part, I could desire nothing better than this quiet

life in the country.”

“Let me guess what is in your mind,” said Pietukh.

“What, then?” asked Chichikov, rather taken aback.

“You are thinking to yourself: ‘That fool of a Pietukh

has asked me to dinner, yet not a bite of dinner do I see.’

But wait a little. It will be ready presently, for it is being*Secondary School.

280

Dead Soulscooked as fast as a maiden who has had her hair cut off

plaits herself a new set of tresses.”

“Here comes Platon Mikhalitch, father!” exclaimed

Aleksasha, who had been peeping out of the window.

“Yes, and on a grey horse,” added his brother.

“Who is Platon Mikhalitch?” inquired Chichikov.

“A neighbour of ours, and an excellent fellow.”

The next moment Platon Mikhalitch himself entered the

room, accompanied by a sporting dog named Yarb. He

was a tall, handsome man, with extremely red hair. As for

his companion, it was of the keen-muzzled species used

for shooting.

“Have you dined yet?” asked the host.

“Yes,” replied Platon.

“Indeed? What do you mean by coming here to laugh at

us all? Do I ever go to your place after dinner?”

The newcomer smiled. “Well, if it can bring you any

comfort,” he said, “let me tell you that I ate nothing at

the meal, for I had no appetite.”

“But you should see what I have caught—what sort of

a sturgeon fate has brought my way! Yes, and what cru-

cians and carp!”

“Really it tires one to hear you. How come you always

to be so cheerful?”

“And how come you always to be so gloomy?” retorted

the host.

“How, you ask? Simply because I am so.”

“The truth is you don’t eat enough. Try the plan of

making a good dinner. Weariness of everything is a mod-

ern invention. Once upon a time one never heard of it.”

“Well, boast away, but have you yourself never been

tired of things?”

“Never in my life. I do not so much as know whether I

should find time to be tired. In the morning, when one

awakes, the cook is waiting, and the dinner has to be

ordered. Then one drinks one’s morning tea, and then the

bailiff arrives for his orders, and then there is fishing to be

done, and then one’s dinner has to be eaten. Next, before

one has even had a chance to utter a snore, there enters

once again the cook, and one has to order supper; and

when she has departed, behold, back she comes with a

request for the following day’s dinner! What time does

281

Gogolthat leave one to be weary of things?”

Throughout this conversation, Chichikov had been tak-

ing stock of the newcomer, who astonished him with his

good looks, his upright, picturesque figure, his appear-

ance of fresh, unwasted youthfulness, and the boyish pu-

rity, innocence, and clarity of his features. Neither pas-

sion nor care nor aught of the nature of agitation or anxi-

ety of mind had ventured to touch his unsullied face, or

to lay a single wrinkle thereon. Yet the touch of life which

those emotions might have imparted was wanting. The

face was, as it were, dreaming, even though from time to

time an ironical smile disturbed it.

“I, too, cannot understand,” remarked Chichikov, “how

a man of your appearance can find things wearisome. Of

course, if a man is hard pressed for money, or if he has

enemies who are lying in wait for his life (as have certain

folk of whom I know), well, then—”

“Believe me when I say,” interrupted the handsome guest,

“that, for the sake of a diversion, I should be glad of any

sort of an anxiety. Would that some enemy would con-

ceive a grudge against me! But no one does so. Every-

thing remains eternally dull.”

“But perhaps you lack a sufficiency of land or souls?”

“Not at all. I and my brother own ten thousand desiatins*

of land, and over a thousand souls.”

“Curious! I do not understand it. But perhaps the har-

vest has failed, or you have sickness about, and many of

your male peasants have died of it?”

“On the contrary, everything is in splendid order, for my

brother is the best of managers.”

“Then to find things wearisome!” exclaimed Chichikov. “It

passes my comprehension.” And he shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, we will soon put weariness to flight,” interrupted

the host. “Aleksasha, do you run helter-skelter to the

kitchen, and there tell the cook to serve the fish pasties.

Yes, and where have that gawk of an Emelian and that

thief of an Antoshka got to? Why have they not handed

round the zakuski?”

At this moment the door opened, and the “gawk” and

the “thief” in question made their appearance with nap-

kins and a tray—the latter bearing six decanters of vari-

*The desiatin = 2.86 English acres.

282

Dead Soulsously-coloured beverages. These they placed upon the table,

and then ringed them about with glasses and platefuls of

every conceivable kind of appetiser. That done, the ser-

vants applied themselves to bringing in various comes-

tibles under covers, through which could be heard the

hissing of hot roast viands. In particular did the “gawk”

and the “thief” work hard at their tasks. As a matter of

fact, their appellations had been given them merely to spur

them to greater activity, for, in general, the barin was no

lover of abuse, but, rather, a kind-hearted man who, like

most Russians, could not get on without a sharp word or

two. That is to say, he needed them for his tongue as he

need a glass of vodka for his digestion. What else could you

expect? It was his nature to care for nothing mild.

To the zakuski succeeded the meal itself, and the host

became a perfect glutton on his guests’ behalf. Should he

notice that a guest had taken but a single piece of a

comestible, he added thereto another one, saying: “With-

out a mate, neither man nor bird can live in this world.”

Should any one take two pieces, he added thereto a third,

saying: “What is the good of the number 2? God loves a

trinity.” Should any one take three pieces, he would say:

“Where do you see a waggon with three wheels? Who builds

a three-cornered hut?” Lastly, should any one take four

pieces, he would cap them with a fifth, and add thereto the

punning quip, “Na piat opiat*”. After devouring at least

twelve steaks of sturgeon, Chichikov ventured to think to

himself, “My host cannot possibly add to them,” but found

that he was mistaken, for, without a word, Pietukh heaped

upon his plate an enormous portion of spit-roasted veal,

and also some kidneys. And what veal it was!

“That calf was fed two years on milk,” he explained. “I

cared for it like my own son.”

“Nevertheless I can eat no more,” said Chichikov.

“Do you try the veal before you say that you can eat no

more.”

“But I could not get it down my throat. There is no

room left.”

“If there be no room in a church for a newcomer, the

beadle is sent for, and room is very soon made—yes, even

though before there was such a crush that an apple couldn’t

*“One more makes five.”

283

Gogolhave been dropped between the people. Do you try the

veal, I say. That piece is the titbit of all.”

So Chichikov made the attempt; and in very truth the

veal was beyond all praise, and room was found for it, even

though one would have supposed the feat impossible.

“Fancy this good fellow removing to St. Petersburg or

Moscow!” said the guest to himself. “Why, with a scale of

living like this, he would be ruined in three years.” For

that matter, Pietukh might well have been ruined already,

for hospitality can dissipate a fortune in three months as

easily as it can in three years.

The host also dispensed the wine with a lavish hand,

and what the guests did not drink he gave to his sons,

who thus swallowed glass after glass. Indeed, even before

coming to table, it was possible to discern to what de-

partment of human accomplishment their bent was turned.

When the meal was over, however, the guests had no mind

for further drinking. Indeed, it was all that they could do

to drag themselves on to the balcony, and there to re-

lapse into easy chairs. Indeed, the moment that the host

subsided into his seat—it was large enough for four—he

fell asleep, and his portly presence, converting itself into

a sort of blacksmith’s bellows, started to vent, through

open mouth and distended nostrils, such sounds as can

have greeted the reader’s ear but seldom—sounds as of a

drum being beaten in combination with the whistling of a

flute and the strident howling of a dog.

“Listen to him!” said Platon.

Chichikov smiled.

“Naturally, on such dinners as that,” continued the other,

“our host does not find the time dull. And as soon as

dinner is ended there can ensue sleep.”

“Yes, but, pardon me, I still fail to understand why you

should find life wearisome. There are so many resources

against ennui!”

“As for instance?”

“For a young man, dancing, the playing of one or an-

other musical instrument, and—well, yes, marriage.”

“Marriage to whom?”

“To some maiden who is both charming and rich. Are

there none in these parts?”

“No.”

284

Dead Souls“Then, were I you, I should travel, and seek a maiden

elsewhere.” And a brilliant idea therewith entered

Chichikov’s head. “This last resource,” he added, “is the

best of all resources against ennui.”

“What resource are you speaking of?”

“Of travel.”

“But whither?”

“Well, should it so please you, you might join me as my

companion.” This said, the speaker added to himself as he

eyed Platon: “Yes, that would suit me exactly, for then I

should have half my expenses paid, and could charge him

also with the cost of mending the koliaska.”

“And whither should we go?”

“In that respect I am not wholly my own master, as I

have business to do for others as well as for myself. For

instance, General Betristchev—an intimate friend and, I

might add, a generous benefactor of mine—has charged

me with commissions to certain of his relatives. However,

though relatives are relatives, I am travelling likewise on

my own account, since I wish to see the world and the

whirligig of humanity—which, in spite of what people

may say, is as good as a living book or a second educa-

tion.” As a matter of fact, Chichikov was reflecting, “Yes,

the plan is an excellent one. I might even contrive that he

should have to bear the whole of our expenses, and that

his horses should be used while my own should be put out

to graze on his farm.”

“Well, why should I not adopt the suggestion?” was

Platon’s thought. “There is nothing for me to do at home,

since the management of the estate is in my brother’s

hands, and my going would cause him no inconvenience.

Yes, why should I not do as Chichikov has suggested?”

Then he added aloud:

“Would you come and stay with my brother for a couple

of days? Otherwise he might refuse me his consent.”

“With great pleasure,” said Chichikov. “Or even for three

days.”

“Then here is my hand on it. Let us be off at once.”

Platon seemed suddenly to have come to life again.

“Where are you off to?” put in their host unexpectedly

as he roused himself and stared in astonishment at the

pair. “No, no, my good sirs. I have had the wheels re-

285

Gogolmoved from your koliaska, Monsieur Chichikov, and have

sent your horse, Platon Mikhalitch, to a grazing ground

fifteen versts away. Consequently you must spend the night

here, and depart to-morrow morning after breakfast.”

What could be done with a man like Pietukh? There was

no help for it but to remain. In return, the guests were

rewarded with a beautiful spring evening, for, to spend

the time, the host organised a boating expedition on the

river, and a dozen rowers, with a dozen pairs of oars,

conveyed the party (to the accompaniment of song) across

the smooth surface of the lake and up a great river with

towering banks. From time to time the boat would pass

under ropes, stretched across for purposes of fishing, and

at each turn of the rippling current new vistas unfolded

themselves as tier upon tier of woodland delighted the

eye with a diversity of timber and foliage. In unison did

the rowers ply their sculls, yet it was though of itself that

the skiff shot forward, bird-like, over the glassy surface of

the water; while at intervals the broad-shouldered young

oarsman who was seated third from the bow would raise,

as from a nightingale’s throat, the opening staves of a

boat song, and then be joined by five or six more, until

the melody had come to pour forth in a volume as free

and boundless as Russia herself. And Pietukh, too, would

give himself a shake, and help lustily to support the cho-

rus; and even Chichikov felt acutely conscious of the fact

that he was a Russian. Only Platon reflected: “What is

there so splendid in these melancholy songs? They do but

increase one’s depression of spirits.”

The journey homeward was made in the gathering dusk.

Rhythmically the oars smote a surface which no longer

reflected the sky, and darkness had fallen when they reached

the shore, along which lights were twinkling where the

fisherfolk were boiling live eels for soup. Everything had

now wended its way homeward for the night; the cattle

and poultry had been housed, and the herdsmen, stand-

ing at the gates of the village cattle-pens, amid the trail-

ing dust lately raised by their charges, were awaiting the

milk-pails and a summons to partake of the eel-broth.

Through the dusk came the hum of humankind, and the

barking of dogs in other and more distant villages; while,

over all, the moon was rising, and the darkened country-

286

Dead Soulsside was beginning to glimmer to light again under her

beams. What a glorious picture! Yet no one thought of

admiring it. Instead of galloping over the countryside on

frisky cobs, Nikolasha and Aleksasha were engaged in dream-

ing of Moscow, with its confectioners’ shops and the the-

atres of which a cadet, newly arrived on a visit from the

capital, had just been telling them; while their father had

his mind full of how best to stuff his guests with yet more

food, and Platon was given up to yawning. Only in Chichikov

was a spice of animation visible. “Yes,” he reflected, “some

day I, too, will become lord of such a country place.” And

before his mind’s eye there arose also a helpmeet and

some little Chichikovs.

By the time that supper was finished the party had again

over-eaten themselves, and when Chichikov entered the

room allotted him for the night, he lay down upon the

bed, and prodded his stomach. “It is as tight as a drum,”

he said to himself. “Not another titbit of veal could now

get into it.” Also, circumstances had so brought it about

that next door to him there was situated his host’s apart-

ment; and since the intervening wall was thin, Chichikov

could hear every word that was said there. At the present

moment the master of the house was engaged in giving

the cook orders for what, under the guise of an early

breakfast, promised to constitute a veritable dinner. You

should have heard Pietukh’s behests! They would have

excited the appetite of a corpse.

“Yes,” he said, sucking his lips, and drawing a deep

breath, “in the first place, make a pasty in four divisions.

Into one of the divisions put the sturgeon’s cheeks and

some viaziga*, and into another division some buckwheat

porridge, young mushrooms and onions, sweet milk, calves’

brains, and anything else that you may find suitable—

anything else that you may have got handy. Also, bake

the pastry to a nice brown on one side, and but lightly on

the other. Yes, and, as to the under side, bake it so that it

will be all juicy and flaky, so that it shall not crumble into

bits, but melt in the mouth like the softest snow that

ever you heard of.” And as he said this Pietukh fairly

smacked his lips.

“The devil take him!” muttered Chichikov, thrusting his

*Dried spinal marrow of the sturgeon.

287

Gogolhead beneath the bedclothes to avoid hearing more. “The

fellow won’t give one a chance to sleep.”

Nevertheless he heard through the blankets:

“And garnish the sturgeon with beetroot, smelts, pep-

pered mushrooms, young radishes, carrots, beans, and

anything else you like, so as to have plenty of trimmings.

Yes, and put a lump of ice into the pig’s bladder, so as to

swell it up.”

Many other dishes did Pietukh order, and nothing was to

be heard but his talk of boiling, roasting, and stewing.

Finally, just as mention was being made of a turkey cock,

Chichikov fell asleep.

Next morning the guest’s state of repletion had reached

the point of Platon being unable to mount his horse;

wherefore the latter was dispatched homeward with one

of Pietukh’s grooms, and the two guests entered Chichikov’s

koliaska. Even the dog trotted lazily in the rear; for he,

too, had over-eaten himself.

“It has been rather too much of a good thing,” re-

marked Chichikov as the vehicle issued from the court-

yard.

“Yes, and it vexes me to see the fellow never tire of it,”

replied Platon.

“Ah,” thought Chichikov to himself, “if I had an income

of seventy thousand roubles, as you have, I’d very soon

give tiredness one in the eye! Take Murazov, the tax-

farmer—he, again, must be worth ten millions. What a

fortune!”

“Do you mind where we drive?” asked Platon. “I should

like first to go and take leave of my sister and my brother-

in-law.”

“With pleasure,” said Chichikov.

“My brother-in-law is the leading landowner hereabouts.

At the present moment he is drawing an income of two

hundred thousand roubles from a property which, eight

years ago, was producing a bare twenty thousand.”

“Truly a man worthy of the utmost respect! I shall be

most interested to make his acquaintance. To think of it!

And what may his family name be?”

“Kostanzhoglo.”

“And his Christian name and patronymic?”

“Constantine Thedorovitch.”

288

Dead Souls“Constantine Thedorovitch Kostanzhoglo. Yes, it will be

a most interesting event to make his acquaintance. To

know such a man must be a whole education.”

Here Platon set himself to give Selifan some directions

as to the way, a necessary proceeding in view of the fact

that Selifan could hardly maintain his seat on the box.

Twice Petrushka, too, had fallen headlong, and this ne-

cessitated being tied to his perch with a piece of rope.

“What a clown!” had been Chichikov’s only comment.

“This is where my brother-in-law’s land begins,” said

Platon.

“They give one a change of view.”

And, indeed, from this point the countryside became

planted with timber; the rows of trees running as straight

as pistol-shots, and having beyond them, and on higher

ground, a second expanse of forest, newly planted like the

first; while beyond it, again, loomed a third plantation of

older trees. Next there succeeded a flat piece of the same

nature.

“All this timber,” said Platon, “has grown up within

eight or ten years at the most; whereas on another man’s

land it would have taken twenty to attain the same

growth.”

“And how has your brother-in-law effected this?”

“You must ask him yourself. He is so excellent a hus-

bandman that nothing ever fails with him. You see, he

knows the soil, and also knows what ought to be planted

beside what, and what kinds of timber are the best

neighbourhood for grain. Again, everything on his estate

is made to perform at least three or four different func-

tions. For instance, he makes his timber not only serve as

timber, but also serve as a provider of moisture and shade

to a given stretch of land, and then as a fertiliser with its

fallen leaves. Consequently, when everywhere else there is

drought, he still has water, and when everywhere else there

has been a failure of the harvest, on his lands it will have

proved a success. But it is a pity that I know so little about

it all as to be unable to explain to you his many expedients.

Folk call him a wizard, for he produces so much. Neverthe-

less, personally I find what he does uninteresting.”

“Truly an astonishing fellow!” reflected Chichikov with a

glance at his companion. “It is sad indeed to see a man

289

Gogolso superficial as to be unable to explain matters of this

kind.”

At length the manor appeared in sight—an establish-

ment looking almost like a town, so numerous were the

huts where they stood arranged in three tiers, crowned

with three churches, and surrounded with huge ricks and

barns. “Yes,” thought Chichikov to himself, “one can see

what a jewel of a landowner lives here.” The huts in ques-

tion were stoutly built and the intervening alleys well

laid-out; while, wherever a waggon was visible, it looked

serviceable and more or less new. Also, the local peasants

bore an intelligent look on their faces, the cattle were of

the best possible breed, and even the peasants’ pigs be-

longed to the porcine aristocracy. Clearly there dwelt here

peasants who, to quote the song, were accustomed to

“pick up silver by the shovelful.” Nor were Englishified

gardens and parterres and other conceits in evidence, but,

on the contrary, there ran an open view from the manor

house to the farm buildings and the workmen’s cots, so

that, after the old Russian fashion, the barin should be

able to keep an eye upon all that was going on around

him. For the same purpose, the mansion was topped with

a tall lantern and a superstructure—a device designed,

not for ornament, nor for a vantage-spot for the contem-

plation of the view, but for supervision of the labourers

engaged in distant fields. Lastly, the brisk, active servants

who received the visitors on the verandah were very dif-

ferent menials from the drunken Petrushka, even though

they did not wear swallow-tailed coats, but only Cossack

tchekmenu* of blue homespun cloth.

The lady of the house also issued on to the verandah.

With her face of the freshness of “blood and milk” and the

brightness of God’s daylight, she as nearly resembled Platon

as one pea resembles another, save that, whereas he was

languid, she was cheerful and full of talk.

“Good day, brother!” she cried. “How glad I am to see

you! Constantine is not at home, but will be back pres-

ently.”

“Where is he?”

“Doing business in the village with a party of factors,”

replied the lady as she conducted her guests to the draw-

*Long, belted Tartar blouses.

290

Dead Soulsing-room.

With no little curiosity did Chichikov gaze at the inte-

rior of the mansion inhabited by the man who received an

annual income of two hundred thousand roubles; for he

thought to discern therefrom the nature of its proprietor,

even as from a shell one may deduce the species of oyster

or snail which has been its tenant, and has left therein its

impression. But no such conclusions were to be drawn.

The rooms were simple, and even bare. Not a fresco nor a

picture nor a bronze nor a flower nor a china what-not nor

a book was there to be seen. In short, everything ap-

peared to show that the proprietor of this abode spent

the greater part of his time, not between four walls, but

in the field, and that he thought out his plans, not in

sybaritic fashion by the fireside, nor in an easy chair be-

side the stove, but on the spot where work was actually in

progress—that, in a word, where those plans were con-

ceived, there they were put into execution. Nor in these

rooms could Chichikov detect the least trace of a femi-

nine hand, beyond the fact that certain tables and chairs

bore drying-boards whereon were arranged some sprin-

klings of flower petals.

“What is all this rubbish for?” asked Platon.

“It is not rubbish,” replied the lady of the house. “On the

contrary, it is the best possible remedy for fever. Last year

we cured every one of our sick peasants with it. Some of

the petals I am going to make into an ointment, and some

into an infusion. You may laugh as much as you like at my

potting and preserving, yet you yourself will be glad of

things of the kind when you set out on your travels.”

Platon moved to the piano, and began to pick out a

note or two.

“Good Lord, what an ancient instrument!” he exclaimed.

“Are you not ashamed of it, sister?”

“Well, the truth is that I get no time to practice my

music. You see,” she added to Chichikov, “I have an eight-

year-old daughter to educate; and to hand her over to a

foreign governess in order that I may have leisure for my

own piano-playing—well, that is a thing which I could

never bring myself to do.”

“You have become a wearisome sort of person,” com-

mented Platon, and walked away to the window. “Ah, here

291

Gogolcomes Constantine,” presently he added.

Chichikov also glanced out of the window, and saw ap-

proaching the verandah a brisk, swarthy-complexioned man

of about forty, a man clad in a rough cloth jacket and a

velveteen cap. Evidently he was one of those who care

little for the niceties of dress. With him, bareheaded, there

came a couple of men of a somewhat lower station in life,

and all three were engaged in an animated discussion.

One of the barin’s two companions was a plain peasant,

and the other (clad in a blue Siberian smock) a travelling

factor. The fact that the party halted awhile by the en-

trance steps made it possible to overhear a portion of

their conversation from within.

“This is what you peasants had better do,” the barin

was saying. “Purchase your release from your present

master. I will lend you the necessary money, and after-

wards you can work for me.”

“No, Constantine Thedorovitch,” replied the peasant.

“Why should we do that? Remove us just as we are. You

will know how to arrange it, for a cleverer gentleman than

you is nowhere to be found. The misfortune of us muzhiks

is that we cannot protect ourselves properly. The tavern-

keepers sell us such liquor that, before a man knows where

he is, a glassful of it has eaten a hole through his stom-

ach, and made him feel as though he could drink a pail of

water. Yes, it knocks a man over before he can look around.

Everywhere temptation lies in wait for the peasant, and

he needs to be cunning if he is to get through the world

at all. In fact, things seem to be contrived for nothing

but to make us peasants lose our wits, even to the to-

bacco which they sell us. What are folk like ourselves to

do, Constantine Thedorovitch? I tell you it is terribly dif-

ficult for a muzhik to look after himself.”

“Listen to me. This is how things are done here. When I

take on a serf, I fit him out with a cow and a horse. On

the other hand, I demand of him thereafter more than is

demanded of a peasant anywhere else. That is to say, first

and foremost I make him work. Whether a peasant be

working for himself or for me, never do I let him waste

time. I myself toil like a bullock, and I force my peasants

to do the same, for experience has taught me that that is

the only way to get through life. All the mischief in the

292

Dead Soulsworld comes through lack of employment. Now, do you

go and consider the matter, and talk it over with your

mir*.”

“We have done that already, Constantine Thedorovitch,

and our elders’ opinion is: ‘There is no need for further

talk. Every peasant belonging to Constantine Thedorovitch

is well off, and hasn’t to work for nothing. The priests of

his village, too, are men of good heart, whereas ours have

been taken away, and there is no one to bury us.’”

“Nevertheless, do you go and talk the matter over again.”

“We will, barin.”

Here the factor who had been walking on the barin’s

other side put in a word.

“Constantine Thedorovitch,” he said, “I beg of you to

do as I have requested.”

“I have told you before,” replied the barin, “that I do

not care to play the huckster. I am not one of those

landowners whom fellows of your sort visit on the very

day that the interest on a mortgage is due. Ah, I know

your fraternity thoroughly, and know that you keep lists

of all who have mortgages to repay. But what is there so

clever about that? Any man, if you pinch him sufficiently,

will surrender you a mortgage at half-price,—any man,

that is to say, except myself, who care nothing for your

money. Were a loan of mine to remain out three years, I

should never demand a kopeck of interest on it.”

“Quite so, Constantine Thedorovitch,” replied the fac-

tor. “But I am asking this of you more for the purpose of

establishing us on a business footing than because I de-

sire to win your favour. Prey, therefore, accept this ear-

nest money of three thousand roubles.” And the man drew

from his breast pocket a dirty roll of bank-notes, which,

carelessly receiving, Kostanzhoglo thrust, uncounted, into

the back pocket of his overcoat.

“Hm!” thought Chichikov. “For all he cares, the notes

might have been a handkerchief.”

When Kostanzhoglo appeared at closer quarters—that

is to say, in the doorway of the drawing-room—he struck

Chichikov more than ever with the swarthiness of his com-

plexion, the dishevelment of his black, slightly grizzled

locks, the alertness of his eye, and the impression of fiery*Village commune.

293

Gogolsouthern origin which his whole personality diffused. For

he was not wholly a Russian, nor could he himself say

precisely who his forefathers had been. Yet, inasmuch as

he accounted genealogical research no part of the science

of estate-management, but a mere superfluity, he looked

upon himself as, to all intents and purposes, a native of

Russia, and the more so since the Russian language was

the only tongue he knew.

Platon presented Chichikov, and the pair exchanged greet-

ings.

“To get rid of my depression, Constantine,” continued

Platon, “I am thinking of accompanying our guest on a

tour through a few of the provinces.”

“An excellent idea,” said Kostanzhoglo. “But precisely

whither?” he added, turning hospitably to Chichikov.

“To tell you the truth,” replied that personage with an

affable inclination of the head as he smoothed the arm of

his chair with his hand, “I am travelling less on my own

affairs than on the affairs of others. That is to say, General

Betristchev, an intimate friend, and, I might add, a gen-

erous benefactor, of mine, has charged me with commis-

sions to some of his relatives. Nevertheless, though rela-

tives are relatives, I may say that I am travelling on my

own account as well, in that, in addition to possible ben-

efit to my health, I desire to see the world and the whirli-

gig of humanity, which constitute, so to speak, a living

book, a second course of education.”

“Yes, there is no harm in looking at other corners of the

world besides one’s own.”

“You speak truly. There is no harm in such a proceeding.

Thereby one may see things which one has not before

encountered, one may meet men with whom one has not

before come in contact. And with some men of that kind

a conversation is as precious a benefit as has been con-

ferred upon me by the present occasion. I come to you,

most worthy Constantine Thedorovitch, for instruction,

and again for instruction, and beg of you to assuage my

thirst with an exposition of the truth as it is. I hunger for

the favour of your words as for manna.”

“But how so? What can I teach you?” exclaimed

Kostanzhoglo in confusion. “I myself was given but the

plainest of educations.”

294

Dead Souls“Nay, most worthy sir, you possess wisdom, and again

wisdom. Wisdom only can direct the management of a

great estate, that can derive a sound income from the

same, that can acquire wealth of a real, not a fictitious,

order while also fulfilling the duties of a citizen and thereby

earning the respect of the Russian public. All this I pray

you to teach me.”

“I tell you what,” said Kostanzhoglo, looking medita-

tively at his guest. “You had better stay with me for a few

days, and during that time I can show you how things are

managed here, and explain to you everything. Then you

will see for yourself that no great wisdom is required for

the purpose.”

“Yes, certainly you must stay here,” put in the lady of

the house. Then, turning to her brother, she added: “And

you too must stay. Why should you be in such a hurry?”

“Very well,” he replied. “But what say you, Paul

Ivanovitch?”

“I say the same as you, and with much pleasure,” re-

plied Chichikov. “But also I ought to tell you this: that

there is a relative of General Betristchev’s, a certain Colo-

nel Koshkarev—”

“Yes, we know him; but he is quite mad.”

“As you say, he is mad, and I should not have been

intending to visit him, were it not that General Betristchev

is an intimate friend of mine, as well as, I might add, my

most generous benefactor.”

“Then,” said Kostanzhoglo, “do you go and see Colonel

Koshkarev NOW. He lives less than ten versts from here,

and I have a gig already harnessed. Go to him at once,

and return here for tea.”

“An excellent idea!” cried Chichikov, and with that he

seized his cap.

Half an hour’s drive sufficed to bring him to the Colonel’s

establishment. The village attached to the manor was in a

state of utter confusion, since in every direction building

and repairing operations were in progress, and the alleys

were choked with heaps of lime, bricks, and beams of

wood. Also, some of the huts were arranged to resemble

offices, and superscribed in gilt letters “Depot for Agri-

cultural Implements,” “Chief Office of Accounts,” “Estate

Works Committee,” “Normal School for the Education of

295

GogolColonists,” and so forth.

Chichikov found the Colonel posted behind a desk and

holding a pen between his teeth. Without an instant’s

delay the master of the establishment—who seemed a

kindly, approachable man, and accorded to his visitor a

very civil welcome—plunged into a recital of the labour

which it had cost him to bring the property to its present

condition of affluence. Then he went on to lament the

fact that he could not make his peasantry understand the

incentives to labour which the riches of science and art

provide; for instance, he had failed to induce his female

serfs to wear corsets, whereas in Germany, where he had

resided for fourteen years, every humble miller’s daughter

could play the piano. None the less, he said, he meant to

peg away until every peasant on the estate should, as he

walked behind the plough, indulge in a regular course of

reading Franklin’s Notes on Electricity, Virgil’s Georgics, or

some work on the chemical properties of soil.

“Good gracious!” mentally exclaimed Chichikov. “Why, I

myself have not had time to finish that book by the

Duchesse de la Valliere!”

Much else the Colonel said. In particular did he aver

that, provided the Russian peasant could be induced to

array himself in German costume, science would progress,

trade increase, and the Golden Age dawn in Russia.

For a while Chichikov listened with distended eyes. Then

he felt constrained to intimate that with all that he had

nothing to do, seeing that his business was merely to

acquire a few souls, and thereafter to have their purchase

confirmed.

“If I understand you aright,” said the Colonel, “you

wish to present a Statement of Plea?”

“Yes, that is so.”

“Then kindly put it into writing, and it shall be forwarded

to the Office for the Reception of Reports and Returns.

Thereafter that Office will consider it, and return it to me,

who will, in turn, dispatch it to the Estate Works Commit-

tee, who will, in turn, revise it, and present it to the Ad-

ministrator, who, jointly with the Secretary, will—”

“Pardon me,” expostulated Chichikov, “but that proce-

dure will take up a great deal of time. Why need I put the

matter into writing at all? It is simply this. I want a few

296

Dead Soulssouls which are—well, which are, so to speak, dead.”

“Very good,” commented the Colonel. “Do you write

down in your Statement of Plea that the souls which you

desire are, ‘so to speak, dead.’”

“But what would be the use of my doing so? Though

the souls are dead, my purpose requires that they should

be represented as alive.”

“Very good,” again commented the Colonel. “Do you

write down in your Statement that ‘it is necessary’ (or,

should you prefer an alternative phrase, ‘it is requested,’

or ‘it is desiderated,’ or ‘it is prayed,’) ‘that the souls be

represented as alive.’ At all events, without documentary

process of that kind, the matter cannot possibly be car-

ried through. Also, I will appoint a Commissioner to guide

you round the various Offices.”

And he sounded a bell; whereupon there presented him-

self a man whom, addressing as “Secretary,” the Colonel

instructed to summon the “Commissioner.” The latter, on

appearing, was seen to have the air, half of a peasant, half

of an official.

“This man,” the Colonel said to Chichikov, “will act as

your escort.”

What could be done with a lunatic like Koshkarev? In

the end, curiosity moved Chichikov to accompany the Com-

missioner. The Committee for the Reception of Reports

and Returns was discovered to have put up its shutters,

and to have locked its doors, for the reason that the

Director of the Committee had been transferred to the

newly-formed Committee of Estate Management, and his

successor had been annexed by the same Committee. Next,

Chichikov and his escort rapped at the doors of the De-

partment of Estate Affairs; but that Department’s quar-

ters happened to be in a state of repair, and no one could

be made to answer the summons save a drunken peasant

from whom not a word of sense was to be extracted. At

length the escort felt himself removed to remark:

“There is a deal of foolishness going on here. Fellows

like that drunkard lead the barin by the nose, and every-

thing is ruled by the Committee of Management, which

takes men from their proper work, and sets them to do

any other it likes. Indeed, only through the Committee

does anything get done.”

297

GogolBy this time Chichikov felt that he had seen enough;

wherefore he returned to the Colonel, and informed him

that the Office for the Reception of Reports and Returns

had ceased to exist. At once the Colonel flamed to noble

rage. Pressing Chichikov’s hand in token of gratitude for

the information which the guest had furnished, he took

paper and pen, and noted eight searching questions under

three separate headings: (1) “Why has the Committee of

Management presumed to issue orders to officials not under

its jurisdiction?” (2) “Why has the Chief Manager permit-

ted his predecessor, though still in retention of his post,

to follow him to another Department?” and (3) “Why has

the Committee of Estate Affairs suffered the Office for the

Reception of Reports and Returns to lapse?”

“Now for a row!” thought Chichikov to himself, and

turned to depart; but his host stopped him, saying:

“I cannot let you go, for, in addition to my honour

having become involved, it behoves me to show my people

how the regular, the organised, administration of an es-

tate may be conducted. Herewith I will hand over the

conduct of your affair to a man who is worth all the rest

of the staff put together, and has had a university educa-

tion. Also, the better to lose no time, may I humbly beg

you to step into my library, where you will find note-

books, paper, pens, and everything else that you may re-

quire. Of these articles pray make full use, for you are a

gentleman of letters, and it is your and my joint duty to

bring enlightenment to all.”

So saying, he ushered his guest into a large room lined

from floor to ceiling with books and stuffed specimens.

The books in question were divided into sections—a sec-

tion on forestry, a section on cattle-breeding, a section

on the raising of swine, and a section on horticulture,

together with special journals of the type circulated merely

for the purposes of reference, and not for general reading.

Perceiving that these works were scarcely of a kind calcu-

lated to while away an idle hour, Chichikov turned to a

second bookcase. But to do so was to fall out of the

frying-pan into the fire, for the contents of the second

bookcase proved to be works on philosophy, while, in par-

ticular, six huge volumes confronted him under a label

inscribed “A Preparatory Course to the Province of Thought,

298

Dead Soulswith the Theory of Community of Effort, Co-operation,

and Subsistence, in its Application to a Right Understand-

ing of the Organic Principles of a Mutual Division of Social

Productivity.” Indeed, wheresoever Chichikov looked, ev-

ery page presented to his vision some such words as “phe-

nomenon,” “development,” “abstract,” “contents,” and

“synopsis.” “This is not the sort of thing for me,” he

murmured, and turned his attention to a third bookcase,

which contained books on the Arts. Extracting a huge

tome in which some by no means reticent mythological

illustrations were contained, he set himself to examine

these pictures. They were of the kind which pleases mostly

middle-aged bachelors and old men who are accustomed

to seek in the ballet and similar frivolities a further spur

to their waning passions. Having concluded his examina-

tion, Chichikov had just extracted another volume of the

same species when Colonel Koshkarev returned with a docu-

ment of some sort and a radiant countenance.

“Everything has been carried through in due form!” he

cried. “The man whom I mentioned is a genius indeed,

and I intend not only to promote him over the rest, but

also to create for him a special Department. Herewith

shall you hear what a splendid intellect is his, and how in

a few minutes he has put the whole affair in order.”

“May the Lord be thanked for that!” thought Chichikov.

Then he settled himself while the Colonel read aloud:

“‘After giving full consideration to the Reference which

your Excellency has entrusted to me, I have the honour to

report as follows:

“‘(1) In the Statement of Plea presented by one Paul

Ivanovitch Chichikov, Gentleman, Chevalier, and Collegiate

Councillor, there lurks an error, in that an oversight has led

the Petitioner to apply to Revisional Souls the term “Dead.”

Now, from the context it would appear that by this term

the Petitioner desires to signify Souls Approaching Death

rather than Souls Actually Deceased: wherefore the term

employed betrays such an empirical instruction in letters as

must, beyond doubt, have been confined to the Village

School, seeing that in truth the Soul is Deathless.’

“The rascal!” Koshkarev broke off to exclaim delight-

edly. “He has got you there, Monsieur Chichikov. And you

will admit that he has a sufficiently incisive pen?

299

Gogol“‘(2) On this Estate there exist no Unmortgaged Souls

whatsoever, whether Approaching Death or Otherwise; for

the reason that all Souls thereon have been pledged not

only under a First Deed of Mortgage, but also (for the sum

of One Hundred and Fifty Roubles per Soul) under a Sec-

ond,—the village of Gurmailovka alone excepted, in that,

in consequence of a Suit having been brought against

Landowner Priadistchev, and of a caveat having been pro-

nounced by the Land Court, and of such caveat having

been published in No. 42 of the Gazette of Moscow, the

said Village has come within the Jurisdiction of the Court

Above-Mentioned.”

“Why did you not tell me all this before?” cried Chichikov

furiously. “Why you have kept me dancing about for noth-

ing?”

“Because it was absolutely necessary that you should

view the matter through forms of documentary process.

This is no jest on my part. The inexperienced may see

things subconsciously, yet is imperative that he should

also see them consiously.”

But to Chichikov’s patience an end had come. Seizing

his cap, and casting all ceremony to the winds, he fled

from the house, and rushed through the courtyard. As it

happened, the man who had driven him thither had, warned

by experience, not troubled even to take out the horses,

since he knew that such a proceeding would have entailed

not only the presentation of a Statement of Plea for fod-

der, but also a delay of twenty-four hours until the Reso-

lution granting the same should have been passed. Never-

theless the Colonel pursued his guest to the gates, and

pressed his hand warmly as he thanked him for having

enabled him (the Colonel) thus to exhibit in operation the

proper management of an estate. Also, he begged to state

that, under the circumstances, it was absolutely neces-

sary to keep things moving and circulating, since, other-

wise, slackness was apt to supervene, and the working of

the machine to grow rusty and feeble; but that, in spite

of all, the present occasion had inspired him with a happy

idea—namely, the idea of instituting a Committee which

should be entitled “The Committee of Supervision of the

Committee of Management,” and which should have for

its function the detection of backsliders among the body

300

Dead Soulsfirst mentioned.

It was late when, tired and dissatisfied, Chichikov re-

gained Kostanzhoglo’s mansion. Indeed, the candles had

long been lit.

“What has delayed you?” asked the master of the house

as Chichikov entered the drawing-room.

“Yes, what has kept you and the Colonel so long in

conversation together?” added Platon.

“This—the fact that never in my life have I come across

such an imbecile,” was Chichikov’s reply.

“Never mind,” said Kostanzhoglo. “Koshkarev is a most

reassuring phenomenon. He is necessary in that in him we

see expressed in caricature all the more crying follies of

our intellectuals—of the intellectuals who, without first

troubling to make themselves acquainted with their own

country, borrow silliness from abroad. Yet that is how

certain of our landowners are now carrying on. They have

set up ‘offices’ and factories and schools and ‘commis-

sions,’ and the devil knows what else besides. A fine lot of

wiseacres! After the French War in 1812 they had to re-

construct their affairs: and see how they have done it! Yet

so much worse have they done it than a Frenchman would

have done that any fool of a Peter Petrovitch Pietukh now

ranks as a good landowner!”

“But he has mortgaged the whole of his estate?” re-

marked Chichikov.

“Yes, nowadays everything is being mortgaged, or is

going to be.” This said, Kostanzhoglo’s temper rose still

further. “Out upon your factories of hats and candles!” he

cried. “Out upon procuring candle-makers from London,

and then turning landowners into hucksters! To think of a

Russian pomiestchik*, a member of the noblest of callings,

conducting workshops and cotton mills! Why, it is for the

wenches of towns to handle looms for muslin and lace.”

“But you yourself maintain workshops?” remarked Platon.

“I do; but who established them? They established them-

selves. For instance, wool had accumulated, and since I

had nowhere to store it, I began to weave it into cloth—

but, mark you, only into good, plain cloth of which I can

dispose at a cheap rate in the local markets, and which is

needed by peasants, including my own. Again, for six years

*Landowner.

301

Gogolon end did the fish factories keep dumping their offal on

my bank of the river; wherefore, at last, as there was

nothing to be done with it, I took to boiling it into glue,

and cleared forty thousand roubles by the process.”

“The devil!” thought Chichikov to himself as he stared

at his host. “What a fist this man has for making money!”

“Another reason why I started those factories,” contin-

ued Kostanzhoglo, “is that they might give employment

to many peasants who would otherwise have starved. You

see, the year happened to have been a lean one—thanks

to those same industry-mongering landowners, in that

they had neglected to sow their crops; and now my facto-

ries keep growing at the rate of a factory a year, owing to

the circumstance that such quantities of remnants and

cuttings become so accumulated that, if a man looks

carefully to his management, he will find every sort of

rubbish to be capable of bringing in a return—yes, to the

point of his having to reject money on the plea that he

has no need of it. Yet I do not find that to do all this I

require to build a mansion with facades and pillars!”

“Marvellous!” exclaimed Chichikov. “Beyond all things

does it surprise me that refuse can be so utilised.”

“Yes, and that is what can be done by simple methods.

But nowadays every one is a mechanic, and wants to open

that money chest with an instrument instead of simply.

For that purpose he hies him to England. Yes, that is the

thing to do. What folly!” Kostanzhoglo spat and added:

“Yet when he returns from abroad he is a hundred times

more ignorant than when he went.”

“Ah, Constantine,” put in his wife anxiously, “you know

how bad for you it is to talk like this.”

“Yes, but how am I to help losing my temper? The thing

touches me too closely, it vexes me too deeply to think

that the Russian character should be degenerating. For in

that character there has dawned a sort of Quixotism which

never used to be there. Yes, no sooner does a man get a

little education into his head than he becomes a Don

Quixote, and establishes schools on his estate such as

even a madman would never have dreamed of. And from

that school there issues a workman who is good for noth-

ing, whether in the country or in the town—a fellow who

drinks and is for ever standing on his dignity. Yet still our

302

Dead Soulslandowners keep taking to philanthropy, to converting

themselves into philanthropic knights-errant, and spend-

ing millions upon senseless hospitals and institutions, and

so ruining themselves and turning their families adrift.

Yes, that is all that comes of philanthropy.”

Chichikov’s business had nothing to do with the spread

of enlightenment, he was but seeking an opportunity to

inquire further concerning the putting of refuse to lucra-

tive uses; but Kostanzhoglo would not let him get a word

in edgeways, so irresistibly did the flow of sarcastic com-

ment pour from the speaker’s lips.

“Yes,” went on Kostanzhoglo, “folk are always schem-

ing to educate the peasant. But first make him well-off

and a good farmer. Then he will educate himself fast

enough. As things are now, the world has grown stupid to

a degree that passes belief. Look at the stuff our present-

day scribblers write! Let any sort of a book be published,

and at once you will see every one making a rush for it.

Similarly will you find folk saying: ‘The peasant leads an

over-simple life. He ought to be familiarised with luxu-

ries, and so led to yearn for things above his station.’ And

the result of such luxuries will be that the peasant will

become a rag rather than a man, and suffer from the devil

only knows what diseases, until there will remain in the

land not a boy of eighteen who will not have experienced

the whole gamut of them, and found himself left with not

a tooth in his jaws or a hair on his pate. Yes, that is what

will come of infecting the peasant with such rubbish. But,

thank God, there is still one healthy class left to us—a

class which has never taken up with the ‘advantages’ of

which I speak. For that we ought to be grateful. And

since, even yet, the Russian agriculturist remains the most

respect-worthy man in the land, why should he be touched?

Would to God every one were an agriculturist!”

“Then you believe agriculture to be the most profitable

of occupations?” said Chichikov.

“The best, at all events—if not the most profitable. ‘In

the sweat of thy brow shalt thou till the land.’ To quote

that requires no great wisdom, for the experience of ages

has shown us that, in the agricultural calling, man has

ever remained more moral, more pure, more noble than in

any other. Of course I do not mean to imply that no other

303

Gogolcalling ought to be practised: simply that the calling in

question lies at the root of all the rest. However much

factories may be established privately or by the law, there

will still lie ready to man’s hand all that he needs—he will

still require none of those amenities which are sapping

the vitality of our present-day folk, nor any of those in-

dustrial establishments which make their profit, and keep

themselves going, by causing foolish measures to be

adopted which, in the end, are bound to deprave and

corrupt our unfortunate masses. I myself am determined

never to establish any manufacture, however profitable,

which will give rise to a demand for ‘higher things,’ such

as sugar and tobacco—no not if I lose a million by my

refusing to do so. If corruption must overtake the Mir, it

shall not be through my hands. And I think that God will

justify me in my resolve. Twenty years have I lived among

the common folk, and I know what will inevitably come

of such things.”

“But what surprises me most,” persisted Chichikov, “is

that from refuse it should be possible, with good man-

agement, to make such an immensity of profit.”

“And as for political economy,” continued Kostanzhoglo,

without noticing him, and with his face charged with bil-

ious sarcasm, “—as for political economy, it is a fine

thing indeed. Just one fool sitting on another fool’s back,

and flogging him along, even though the rider can see no

further than his own nose! Yet into the saddle will that

fool climb—spectacles and all! Oh, the folly, the folly of

such things!” And the speaker spat derisively.

“That may be true,” said his wife. “Yet you must not get

angry about it. Surely one can speak on such subjects

without losing one’s temper?”

“As I listen to you, most worthy Constantine

Thedorovitch,” Chichikov hastened to remark, “it becomes

plain to me that you have penetrated into the meaning of

life, and laid your finger upon the essential root of the

matter. Yet supposing, for a moment, we leave the affairs

of humanity in general, and turn our attention to a purely

individual affair, might I ask you how, in the case of a

man becoming a landowner, and having a mind to grow

wealthy as quickly as possible (in order that he may fulfil

his bounden obligations as a citizen), he can best set

304

Dead Soulsabout it?”

“How he can best set about growing wealthy?” repeated

Kostanzhoglo. “Why,—”

“Let us go to supper,” interrupted the lady of the house,

rising from her chair, and moving towards the centre of

the room, where she wrapped her shivering young form in

a shawl. Chichikov sprang up with the alacrity of a mili-

tary man, offered her his arm, and escorted her, as on

parade, to the dining-room, where awaiting them there

was the soup-toureen. From it the lid had just been re-

moved, and the room was redolent of the fragrant odour

of early spring roots and herbs. The company took their

seats, and at once the servants placed the remainder of

the dishes (under covers) upon the table and withdrew,

for Kostanzhoglo hated to have servants listening to their

employers’ conversation, and objected still more to their

staring at him all the while that he was eating.

When the soup had been consumed, and glasses of an

excellent vintage resembling Hungarian wine had been

poured out, Chichikov said to his host:

“Most worthy sir, allow me once more to direct your

attention to the subject of which we were speaking at the

point when the conversation became interrupted. You will

remember that I was asking you how best a man can set

about, proceed in, the matter of growing …”

[Here from the original two pages are missing.]

… “A property for which, had he asked forty thousand, I

should still have demanded a reduction.”

“Hm!” thought Chichikov; then added aloud: “But why

do you not purchase it yourself?”

“Because to everything there must be assigned a limit.

Already my property keeps me sufficiently employed. More-

over, I should cause our local dvoriane to begin crying

out in chorus that I am exploiting their extremities, their

ruined position, for the purpose of acquiring land for un-

der its value. Of that I am weary.”

“How readily folk speak evil!” exclaimed Chichikov.

“Yes, and the amount of evil-speaking in our province

surpasses belief. Never will you hear my name mentioned

without my being called also a miser and a usurer of the

305

Gogolworst possible sort; whereas my accusers justify them-

selves in everything, and say that, ‘though we have wasted

our money, we have started a demand for the higher ameni-

ties of life, and therefore encouraged industry with our

wastefulness, a far better way of doing things than that

practised by Kostanzhoglo, who lives like a pig.’”

“Would I could live in your ‘piggish’ fashion!” ejacu-

lated Chichikov.

“And so forth, and so forth. Yet what are the ‘higher

amenities of life’? What good can they do to any one?

Even if a landowner of the day sets up a library, he never

looks at a single book in it, but soon relapses into card-

playing—the usual pursuit. Yet folk call me names simply

because I do not waste my means upon the giving of

dinners! One reason why I do not give such dinners is that

they weary me; and another reason is that I am not used

to them. But come you to my house for the purpose of

taking pot luck, and I shall be delighted to see you. Also,

folk foolishly say that I lend money on interest; whereas

the truth is that if you should come to me when you are

really in need, and should explain to me openly how you

propose to employ my money, and I should perceive that

you are purposing to use that money wisely, and that you

are really likely to profit thereby—well, in that case you

would find me ready to lend you all that you might ask

without interest at all.”

“That is a thing which it is well to know,” reflected

Chichikov.

“Yes,” repeated Kostanzhoglo, “under those circum-

stances I should never refuse you my assistance. But I do

object to throwing my money to the winds. Pardon me for

expressing myself so plainly. To think of lending money to

a man who is merely devising a dinner for his mistress, or

planning to furnish his house like a lunatic, or thinking of

taking his paramour to a masked ball or a jubilee in honour

of some one who had better never have been born!”

And, spitting, he came near to venting some expression

which would scarcely have been becoming in the presence

of his wife. Over his face the dark shadow of hypochondria

had cast a cloud, and furrows had formed on his brow and

temples, and his every gesture bespoke the influence of a

hot, nervous rancour.

306

Dead Souls“But allow me once more to direct your attention to

the subject of our recently interrupted conversation,” per-

sisted Chichikov as he sipped a glass of excellent raspberry

wine. “That is to say, supposing I were to acquire the

property which you have been good enough to bring to

my notice, how long would it take me to grow rich?”

“That would depend on yourself,” replied Kostanzhoglo

with grim abruptness and evident ill-humour. “You might

either grow rich quickly or you might never grow rich at

all. If you made up your mind to grow rich, sooner or

later you would find yourself a wealthy man.”

“Indeed?” ejaculated Chichikov.

“Yes,” replied Kostanzhoglo, as sharply as though he

were angry with Chichikov. “You would merely need to be

fond of work: otherwise you would effect nothing. The

main thing is to like looking after your property. Believe

me, you would never grow weary of doing so. People would

have it that life in the country is dull; whereas, if I were

to spend a single day as it is spent by some folk, with

their stupid clubs and their restaurants and their theatres,

I should die of ennui. The fools, the idiots, the genera-

tions of blind dullards! But a landowner never finds the

days wearisome—he has not the time. In his life not a

moment remains unoccupied; it is full to the brim. And

with it all goes an endless variety of occupations. And

what occupations! Occupations which genuinely uplift the

soul, seeing that the landowner walks with nature and the

seasons of the year, and takes part in, and is intimate

with, everything which is evolved by creation. For let us

look at the round of the year’s labours. Even before spring

has arrived there will have begun a general watching and

a waiting for it, and a preparing for sowing, and an appor-

tioning of crops, and a measuring of seed grain by byres,

and drying of seed, and a dividing of the workers into

teams. For everything needs to be examined beforehand,

and calculations must be made at the very start. And as

soon as ever the ice shall have melted, and the rivers be

flowing, and the land have dried sufficiently to be work-

able, the spade will begin its task in kitchen and flower

garden, and the plough and the harrow their tasks in the

field; until everywhere there will be tilling and sowing and

planting. And do you understand what the sum of that

307

Gogollabour will mean? It will mean that the harvest is being

sown, that the welfare of the world is being sown, that

the food of millions is being put into the earth. And there-

after will come summer, the season of reaping, endless

reaping; for suddenly the crops will have ripened, and rye-

sheaf will be lying heaped upon rye-sheaf, with, elsewhere,

stocks of barley, and of oats, and of wheat. And every-

thing will be teeming with life, and not a moment will

there need to be lost, seeing that, had you even twenty

eyes, you would have need for them all. And after the

harvest festivities there will be grain to be carted to byre

or stacked in ricks, and stores to be prepared for the win-

ter, and storehouses and kilns and cattle-sheds to be

cleaned for the same purpose, and the women to be as-

signed their tasks, and the totals of everything to be cal-

culated, so that one may see the value of what has been

done. And lastly will come winter, when in every thresh-

ing-floor the flail will be working, and the grain, when

threshed, will need to be carried from barn to binn, and

the mills require to be seen to, and the estate factories to

be inspected, and the workmen’s huts to be visited for

the purpose of ascertaining how the muzhik is faring (for,

given a carpenter who is clever with his tools, I, for one,

am only too glad to spend an hour or two in his company,

so cheering to me is labour). And if, in addition, one

discerns the end to which everything is moving, and the

manner in which the things of earth are everywhere mul-

tiplying and multiplying, and bringing forth more and more

fruit to one’s profiting, I cannot adequately express what

takes place in a man’s soul. And that, not because of the

growth in his wealth—money is money and no more—but

because he will feel that everything is the work of his own

hands, and that he has been the cause of everything, and

its creator, and that from him, as from a magician, there

has flowed bounty and goodness for all. In what other

calling will you find such delights in prospect?” As he

spoke, Kostanzhoglo raised his face, and it became clear

that the wrinkles had fled from it, and that, like the Tsar

on the solemn day of his crowning, Kostanzhoglo’s whole

form was diffusing light, and his features had in them a

gentle radiance. “In all the world,” he repeated, “you will

find no joys like these, for herein man imitates the God

308

Dead Soulswho projected creation as the supreme happiness, and

now demands of man that he, too, should act as the

creator of prosperity. Yet there are folk who call such

functions tedious!”

Kostanzhoglo’s mellifluous periods fell upon Chichikov’s

ear like the notes of a bird of paradise. From time to time

he gulped, and his softened eyes expressed the pleasure

which it gave him to listen.

“Constantine, it is time to leave the table,” said the

lady of the house, rising from her seat. Every one followed

her example, and Chichikov once again acted as his hostess’s

escort—although with less dexterity of deportment than

before, owing to the fact that this time his thoughts were

occupied with more essential matters of procedure.

“In spite of what you say,” remarked Platon as he walked

behind the pair, “I, for my part, find these things weari-

some.”

But the master of the house paid no attention to his

remark, for he was reflecting that his guest was no fool,

but a man of serious thought and speech who did not

take things lightly. And, with the thought, Kostanzhoglo

grew lighter in soul, as though he had warmed himself

with his own words, and were exulting in the fact that he

had found some one capable of listening to good advice.

When they had settled themselves in the cosy, candle-

lighted drawing-room, with its balcony and the glass door

opening out into the garden—a door through which the

stars could be seen glittering amid the slumbering tops of

the trees—Chichikov felt more comfortable than he had

done for many a day past. It was as though, after long

journeying, his own roof-tree had received him once more—

had received him when his quest had been accomplished,

when all that he wished for had been gained, when his

travelling-staff had been laid aside with the words “It is

finished.” And of this seductive frame of mind the true

source had been the eloquent discourse of his hospitable

host. Yes, for every man there exist certain things which,

instantly that they are said, seem to touch him more

closely, more intimately, than anything has done before.

Nor is it an uncommon occurrence that in the most unex-

pected fashion, and in the most retired of retreats, one

will suddenly come face to face with a man whose burning

309

Gogolperiods will lead one to forget oneself and the tracklessness

of the route and the discomfort of one’s nightly halting-

places, and the futility of crazes and the falseness of tricks

by which one human being deceives another. And at once

there will become engraven upon one’s memory—vividly,

and for all time—the evening thus spent. And of that

evening one’s remembrance will hold true, both as to who

was present, and where each such person sat, and what he

or she was wearing, and what the walls and the stove and

other trifling features of the room looked like.

In the same way did Chichikov note each detail that

evening—both the appointments of the agreeable, but

not luxuriously furnished, room, and the good-humoured

expression which reigned on the face of the thoughtful

host, and the design of the curtains, and the amber-

mounted pipe smoked by Platon, and the way in which he

kept puffing smoke into the fat jowl of the dog Yarb, and

the sneeze which, on each such occasion, Yarb vented,

and the laughter of the pleasant-faced hostess (though

always followed by the words “Pray do not tease him any

more”) and the cheerful candle-light, and the cricket chirp-

ing in a corner, and the glass door, and the spring night

which, laying its elbows upon the tree-tops, and spangled

with stars, and vocal with the nightingales which were

pouring forth warbled ditties from the recesses of the

foliage, kept glancing through the door, and regarding

the company within.

“How it delights me to hear your words, good Constantine

Thedorovitch!” said Chichikov. “Indeed, nowhere in Russia

have I met with a man of equal intellect.”

Kostanzhoglo smiled, while realising that the compli-

ment was scarcely deserved.

“If you want a man of genuine intellect,” he said, “I

can tell you of one. He is a man whose boot soles are

worth more than my whole body.”

“Who may he be?” asked Chichikov in astonishment.

“Murazov, our local Commissioner of Taxes.”

“Ah! I have heard of him before,” remarked Chichikov.

“He is a man who, were he not the director of an estate,

might well be a director of the Empire. And were the

Empire under my direction, I should at once appoint him

my Minister of Finance.”

310

Dead Souls“I have heard tales beyond belief concerning him—for

instance, that he has acquired ten million roubles.”

“Ten? More than forty. Soon half Russia will be in his

hands.”

“You don’t say so?” cried Chichikov in amazement.

“Yes, certainly. The man who has only a hundred thou-

sand roubles to work with grows rich but slowly, whereas

he who has millions at his disposal can operate over a

greater radius, and so back whatsoever he undertakes with

twice or thrice the money which can be brought against

him. Consequently his field becomes so spacious that he

ends by having no rivals. Yes, no one can compete with

him, and, whatsoever price he may fix for a given com-

modity, at that price it will have to remain, nor will any

man be able to outbid it.”

“My God!” muttered Chichikov, crossing himself, and

staring at Kostanzhoglo with his breath catching in his

throat. “The mind cannot grasp it—it petrifies one’s

thoughts with awe. You see folk marvelling at what Sci-

ence has achieved in the matter of investigating the hab-

its of cowbugs, but to me it is a far more marvellous

thing that in the hands of a single mortal there can be-

come accumulated such gigantic sums of money. But may

I ask whether the great fortune of which you speak has

been acquired through honest means?”

“Yes; through means of the most irreproachable kind—

through the most honourable of methods.”

“Yet so improbable does it seem that I can scarcely be-

lieve it. Thousands I could understand, but millions—!”

“On the contrary, to make thousands honestly is a far

more difficult matter than to make millions. Millions are

easily come by, for a millionaire has no need to resort to

crooked ways; the way lies straight before him, and he

needs but to annex whatsoever he comes across. No rival

will spring up to oppose him, for no rival will be suffi-

ciently strong, and since the millionaire can operate over

an extensive radius, he can bring (as I have said) two or

three roubles to bear upon any one else’s one. Conse-

quently, what interest will he derive from a thousand

roubles? Why, ten or twenty per cent. at the least.”

“And it is beyond measure marvellous that the whole

should have started from a single kopeck.”

311

Gogol“Had it started otherwise, the thing could never have

been done at all. Such is the normal course. He who is

born with thousands, and is brought up to thousands,

will never acquire a single kopeck more, for he will have

been set up with the amenities of life in advance, and so

never come to stand in need of anything. It is necessary

to begin from the beginning rather than from the middle;

from a kopeck rather than from a rouble; from the bot-

tom rather than from the top. For only thus will a man

get to know the men and conditions among which his

career will have to be carved. That is to say, through

encountering the rough and the tumble of life, and through

learning that every kopeck has to be beaten out with a

three-kopeck nail, and through worsting knave after knave,

he will acquire such a degree of perspicuity and wariness

that he will err in nothing which he may tackle, and never

come to ruin. Believe me, it is so. The beginning, and not

the middle, is the right starting point. No one who comes

to me and says, ‘Give me a hundred thousand roubles, and

I will grow rich in no time,’ do I believe, for he is likely to

meet with failure rather than with the success of which he

is so assured. ’Tis with a kopeck, and with a kopeck only,

that a man must begin.”

“If that is so, I shall grow rich,” said Chichikov, invol-

untarily remembering the dead souls. “For of a surety I

began with nothing.”

“Constantine, pray allow Paul Ivanovitch to retire to

rest,” put in the lady of the house. “It is high time, and I

am sure you have talked enough.”

“Yes, beyond a doubt you will grow rich,” continued

Kostanzhoglo, without heeding his wife. “For towards you

there will run rivers and rivers of gold, until you will not

know what to do with all your gains.”

As though spellbound, Chichikov sat in an aureate world

of ever-growing dreams and fantasies. All his thoughts

were in a whirl, and on a carpet of future wealth his tu-

multuous imagination was weaving golden patterns, while

ever in his ears were ringing the words, “towards you there

will run rivers and rivers of gold.”

“Really, Constantine, do allow Paul Ivanovitch to go to bed.”

“What on earth is the matter?” retorted the master of

the household testily. “Pray go yourself if you wish to.”

312

Dead SoulsThen he stopped short, for the snoring of Platon was fill-

ing the whole room, and also—outrivalling it—that of

the dog Yarb. This caused Kostanzhoglo to realise that

bedtime really had arrived; wherefore, after he had shaken

Platon out of his slumbers, and bidden Chichikov good

night, all dispersed to their several chambers, and became

plunged in sleep.

All, that is to say, except Chichikov, whose thoughts

remained wakeful, and who kept wondering and wonder-

ing how best he could become the owner, not of a ficti-

tious, but of a real, estate. The conversation with his host

had made everything clear, had made the possibility of his

acquiring riches manifest, had made the difficult art of

estate management at once easy and understandable; until

it would seem as though particularly was his nature adapted

for mastering the art in question. All that he would need

to do would be to mortgage the dead souls, and then to

set up a genuine establishment. Already he saw himself

acting and administering as Kostanzhoglo had advised

him—energetically, and through personal oversight, and

undertaking nothing new until the old had been thor-

oughly learned, and viewing everything with his own eyes,

and making himself familiar with each member of his peas-

antry, and abjuring all superfluities, and giving himself up

to hard work and husbandry. Yes, already could he taste

the pleasure which would be his when he had built up a

complete industrial organisation, and the springs of the

industrial machine were in vigorous working order, and

each had become able to reinforce the other. Labour should

be kept in active operation, and, even as, in a mill, flour

comes flowing from grain, so should cash, and yet more

cash, come flowing from every atom of refuse and rem-

nant. And all the while he could see before him the land-

owner who was one of the leading men in Russia, and for

whom he had conceived such an unbounded respect. Hith-

erto only for rank or for opulence had Chichikov respected

a man—never for mere intellectual power; but now he

made a first exception in favour of Kostanzhoglo, seeing

that he felt that nothing undertaken by his host could

possibly come to naught. And another project which was

occupying Chichikov’s mind was the project of purchasing

the estate of a certain landowner named Khlobuev. Al-

313

Gogolready Chichikov had at his disposal ten thousand roubles,

and a further fifteen thousand he would try and borrow of

Kostanzhoglo (seeing that the latter had himself said that

he was prepared to help any one who really desired to

grow rich); while, as for the remainder, he would either

raise the sum by mortgaging the estate or force Khlobuev

to wait for it—just to tell him to resort to the courts if

such might be his pleasure.

Long did our hero ponder the scheme; until at length

the slumber which had, these four hours past, been hold-

ing the rest of the household in its embraces enfolded

also Chichikov, and he sank into oblivion.

CHAPTER IV

Next day, with Platon and Constantine, Chichikov set forth

to interview Khlobuev, the owner whose estate Constantine

had consented to help Chichikov to purchase with a non-

interest-bearing, uncovenanted loan of ten thousand

roubles. Naturally, our hero was in the highest of spirits.

For the first fifteen versts or so the road led through

forest land and tillage belonging to Platon and his brother-

in-law; but directly the limit of these domains was reached,

forest land began to be replaced with swamp, and tillage

with waste. Also, the village in Khlobuev’s estate had about

it a deserted air, and as for the proprietor himself, he was

discovered in a state of drowsy dishevelment, having not

long left his bed. A man of about forty, he had his cravat

crooked, his frockcoat adorned with a large stain, and one

of his boots worn through. Nevertheless he seemed de-

lighted to see his visitors.

“What?” he exclaimed. “Constantine Thedorovitch and

Platon Mikhalitch? Really I must rub my eyes! Never again

in this world did I look to see callers arriving. As a rule,

314

Dead Soulsfolk avoid me like the devil, for they cannot disabuse their

minds of the idea that I am going to ask them for a loan.

Yes, it is my own fault, I know, but what would you? To

the end will swine cheat swine. Pray excuse my costume.

You will observe that my boots are in holes. But how can

I afford to get them mended?”

“Never mind,” said Constantine. “We have come on busi-

ness only. May I present to you a possible purchaser of

your estate, in the person of Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov?”

“I am indeed glad to meet you!” was Khlobuev’s re-

sponse. “Pray shake hands with me, Paul Ivanovitch.”

Chichikov offered one hand, but not both.

“I can show you a property worth your attention,” went

on the master of the estate. “May I ask if you have yet

dined?”

“Yes, we have,” put in Constantine, desirous of escaping

as soon as possible. “To save you further trouble, let us

go and view the estate at once.”

“Very well,” replied Khlobuev. “Pray come and inspect

my irregularities and futilities. You have done well to dine

beforehand, for not so much as a fowl is left in the place,

so dire are the extremities to which you see me reduced.”

Sighing deeply, he took Platon by the arm (it was clear

that he did not look for any sympathy from Constantine)

and walked ahead, while Constantine and Chichikov fol-

lowed.

“Things are going hard with me, Platon Mikhalitch,”

continued Khlobuev. “How hard you cannot imagine. No

money have I, no food, no boots. Were I still young and a

bachelor, it would have come easy to me to live on bread

and cheese; but when a man is growing old, and has got a

wife and five children, such trials press heavily upon him,

and, in spite of himself, his spirits sink.”

“But, should you succeed in selling the estate, that

would help to put you right, would it not?” said Platon.

“How could it do so?” replied Khlobuev with a despair-

ing gesture. “What I might get for the property would

have to go towards discharging my debts, and I should

find myself left with less than a thousand roubles be-

sides.”

“Then what do you intend to do?”

“God knows.”

315

Gogol“But is there nothing to which you could set your hand

in order to clear yourself of your difficulties?”

“How could there be?”

“Well, you might accept a Government post.”

“Become a provincial secretary, you mean? How could I

obtain such a post? They would not offer me one of the

meanest possible kind. Even supposing that they did, how

could I live on a salary of five hundred roubles—I who

have a wife and five children?”

“Then try and obtain a bailiff’s post.”

“Who would entrust their property to a man who has

squandered his own estate?”

“Nevertheless, when death and destitution threaten, a

man must either do something or starve. Shall I ask my

brother to use his influence to procure you a post?”

“No, no, Platon Mikhalitch,” sighed Khlobuev, gripping

the other’s hand. “I am no longer serviceable—I am grown

old before my time, and find that liver and rheumatism

are paying me for the sins of my youth. Why should the

Government be put to a loss on my account?—not to

speak of the fact that for every salaried post there are

countless numbers of applicants. God forbid that, in or-

der to provide me with a livelihood further burdens should

be imposed upon an impoverished public!”

“Such are the results of improvident management!”

thought Platon to himself. “The disease is even worse

than my slothfulness.”

Meanwhile Kostanzhoglo, walking by Chichikov’s side,

was almost taking leave of his senses.

“Look at it!” he cried with a wave of his hand. “See to

what wretchedness the peasant has become reduced! Should

cattle disease come, Khlobuev will have nothing to fall

back upon, but will be forced to sell his all—to leave the

peasant without a horse, and therefore without the means

to labour, even though the loss of a single day’s work may

take years of labour to rectify. Meanwhile it is plain that

the local peasant has become a mere dissolute, lazy drunk-

ard. Give a muzhik enough to live upon for twelve months

without working, and you will corrupt him for ever, so

inured to rags and vagrancy will he grow. And what is the

good of that piece of pasture there—of that piece on the

further side of those huts? It is a mere flooded tract. Were

316

Dead Soulsit mine, I should put it under flax, and clear five thousand

roubles, or else sow it with turnips, and clear, perhaps,

four thousand. And see how the rye is drooping, and nearly

laid. As for wheat, I am pretty sure that he has not sown

any. Look, too, at those ravines! Were they mine, they

would be standing under timber which even a rook could

not top. To think of wasting such quantities of land! Where

land wouldn’t bear corn, I should dig it up, and plant it

with vegetables. What ought to be done is that Khlobuev

ought to take a spade into his own hands, and to set his

wife and children and servants to do the same; and even if

they died of the exertion, they would at least die doing

their duty, and not through guzzling at the dinner table.”

This said, Kostanzhoglo spat, and his brow flushed with

grim indignation.

Presently they reached an elevation whence the distant

flashing of a river, with its flood waters and subsidiary

streams, caught the eye, while, further off, a portion of

General Betristchev’s homestead could be discerned among

the trees, and, over it, a blue, densely wooded hill which

Chichikov guessed to be the spot where Tientietnikov’s

mansion was situated.

“This is where I should plant timber,” said Chichikov.

“And, regarded as a site for a manor house, the situation

could scarcely be beaten for beauty of view.”

“You seem to get great store upon views and beauty,”

remarked Kostanzhoglo with reproof in his tone. “Should

you pay too much attention to those things, you might

find yourself without crops or view. Utility should be

placed first, not beauty. Beauty will come of itself. Take,

for example, towns. The fairest and most beautiful towns

are those which have built themselves—those in which

each man has built to suit his own exclusive circum-

stances and needs; whereas towns which men have con-

structed on regular, string-taut lines are no better than

collections of barracks. Put beauty aside, and look only

to what is necessary.”

“Yes, but to me it would always be irksome to have to

wait. All the time that I was doing so I should be hungering

to see in front of the me the sort of prospect which I prefer.”

“Come, come! Are you a man of twenty-five—you who

have served as a tchinovnik in St. Petersburg? Have pa-

317

Gogoltience, have patience. For six years work, and work hard.

Plant, sow, and dig the earth without taking a moment’s

rest. It will be difficult, I know—yes, difficult indeed;

but at the end of that time, if you have thoroughly stirred

the soil, the land will begin to help you as nothing else

can do. That is to say, over and above your seventy or so

pairs of hands, there will begin to assist in the work seven

hundred pairs of hands which you cannot see. Thus every-

thing will be multiplied tenfold. I myself have ceased even

to have to lift a finger, for whatsoever needs to be done

gets done of itself. Nature loves patience: always remem-

ber that. It is a law given her of God Himself, who has

blessed all those who are strong to endure.”

“To hear your words is to be both encouraged and

strengthened,” said Chichikov. To this Kostanzhoglo made

no reply, but presently went on:

“And see how that piece of land has been ploughed! To

stay here longer is more than I can do. For me, to have to

look upon such want of orderliness and foresight is death.

Finish your business with Khlobuev without me, and what-

soever you do, get this treasure out of that fool’s hands

as quickly as possible, for he is dishonouring God’s gifts.”

And Kostanzhoglo, his face dark with the rage that was

seething in his excitable soul, left Chichikov, and caught

up the owner of the establishment.

“What, Constantine Thedorovitch?” cried Khlobuev in

astonishment. “Just arrived, you are going already?”

“Yes; I cannot help it; urgent business requires me at

home.” And entering his gig, Kostanzhoglo drove rapidly

away. Somehow Khlobuev seemed to divine the cause of

his sudden departure.

“It was too much for him,” he remarked. “An agricul-

turist of that kind does not like to have to look upon the

results of such feckless management as mine. Would you

believe it, Paul Ivanovitch, but this year I have been un-

able to sow any wheat! Am I not a fine husbandman?

There was no seed for the purpose, nor yet anything with

which to prepare the ground. No, I am not like Constantine

Thedorovitch, who, I hear, is a perfect Napoleon in his

particular line. Again and again the thought occurs to

me, ‘Why has so much intellect been put into that head,

and only a drop or two into my own dull pate?’ Take care

318

Dead Soulsof that puddle, gentlemen. I have told my peasants to lay

down planks for the spring, but they have not done so.

Nevertheless my heart aches for the poor fellows, for they

need a good example, and what sort of an example am I?

How am I to give them orders? Pray take them under your

charge, Paul Ivanovitch, for I cannot teach them orderli-

ness and method when I myself lack both. As a matter of

fact, I should have given them their freedom long ago,

had there been any use in my doing so; for even I can see

that peasants must first be afforded the means of earning

a livelihood before they can live. What they need is a

stern, yet just, master who shall live with them, day in,

day out, and set them an example of tireless energy. The

present-day Russian—I know of it myself—is helpless with-

out a driver. Without one he falls asleep, and the mould

grows over him.”

“Yet I cannot understand why he should fall asleep and

grow mouldy in that fashion,” said Platon. “Why should

he need continual surveillance to keep him from degener-

ating into a drunkard and a good-for-nothing?”

“The cause is lack of enlightenment,” said Chichikov.

“Possibly—only God knows. Yet enlightenment has

reached us right enough. Do we not attend university

lectures and everything else that is befitting? Take my

own education. I learnt not only the usual things, but

also the art of spending money upon the latest refine-

ment, the latest amenity—the art of familiarising oneself

with whatsoever money can buy. How, then, can it be said

that I was educated foolishly? And my comrades’ educa-

tion was the same. A few of them succeeded in annexing

the cream of things, for the reason that they had the wit

to do so, and the rest spent their time in doing their best

to ruin their health and squander their money. Often I

think there is no hope for the present-day Russian. While

desiring to do everything, he accomplishes nothing. One

day he will scheme to begin a new mode of existence, a

new dietary; yet before evening he will have so over-eaten

himself as to be unable to speak or do aught but sit

staring like an owl. The same with every one.”

“Quite so,” agreed Chichikov with a smile. “’Tis every-

where the same story.”

“To tell the truth, we are not born to common sense. I

319

Gogoldoubt whether Russia has ever produced a really sensible

man. For my own part, if I see my neighbour living a

regular life, and making money, and saving it, I begin to

distrust him, and to feel certain that in old age, if not

before, he too will be led astray by the devil—led astray

in a moment. Yes, whether or not we be educated, there is

something we lack. But what that something is passes my

understanding.”

On the return journey the prospect was the same as

before. Everywhere the same slovenliness, the same disor-

der, was displaying itself unadorned: the only difference

being that a fresh puddle had formed in the middle of the

village street. This want and neglect was noticeable in the

peasants’ quarters equally with the quarters of the barin.

In the village a furious woman in greasy sackcloth was

beating a poor young wench within an ace of her life, and

at the same time devoting some third person to the care

of all the devils in hell; further away a couple of peasants

were stoically contemplating the virago—one scratching

his rump as he did so, and the other yawning. The same

yawn was discernible in the buildings, for not a roof was

there but had a gaping hole in it. As he gazed at the scene

Platon himself yawned. Patch was superimposed upon patch,

and, in place of a roof, one hut had a piece of wooden

fencing, while its crumbling window-frames were stayed

with sticks purloined from the barin’s barn. Evidently the

system of upkeep in vogue was the system employed in the

case of Trishkin’s coat—the system of cutting up the cuffs

and the collar into mendings for the elbows.

“No, I do not admire your way of doing things,” was

Chichikov’s unspoken comment when the inspection had

been concluded and the party had re-entered the house.

Everywhere in the latter the visitors were struck with the

way in which poverty went with glittering, fashionable

profusion. On a writing-table lay a volume of Shakespeare,

and, on an occasional table, a carved ivory back-scratcher.

The hostess, too, was elegantly and fashionably attired,

and devoted her whole conversation to the town and the

local theatre. Lastly, the children—bright, merry little

things—were well-dressed both as regards boys and girls.

Yet far better would it have been for them if they had

been clad in plain striped smocks, and running about the

320

Dead Soulscourtyard like peasant children. Presently a visitor arrived

in the shape of a chattering, gossiping woman; where-

upon the hostess carried her off to her own portion of the

house, and, the children following them, the men found

themselves alone.

“How much do you want for the property?” asked

Chichikov of Khlobuev. “I am afraid I must request you to

name the lowest possible sum, since I find the estate in a

far worse condition than I had expected to do.”

“Yes, it is in a terrible state,” agreed Khlobuev. “Nor is

that the whole of the story. That is to say, I will not

conceal from you the fact that, out of a hundred souls

registered at the last revision, only fifty survive, so ter-

rible have been the ravages of cholera. And of these, again,

some have absconded; wherefore they too must be reck-

oned as dead, seeing that, were one to enter process against

them, the costs would end in the property having to pass

en bloc to the legal authorities. For these reasons I am

asking only thirty-five thousand roubles for the estate.”

Chichikov (it need hardly be said) started to haggle.

“Thirty-five thousand?” he cried. “Come, come! Surely

you will accept twenty-five thousand?”

This was too much for Platon’s conscience.

“Now, now, Paul Ivanovitch!” he exclaimed. “Take the

property at the price named, and have done with it. The

estate is worth at least that amount—so much so that,

should you not be willing to give it, my brother-in-law

and I will club together to effect the purchase.”

“That being so,” said Chichikov, taken aback, “I beg to

agree to the price in question. At the same time, I must

ask you to allow me to defer payment of one-half of the

purchase money until a year from now.”

“No, no, Paul Ivanovitch. Under no circumstances could

I do that. Pay me half now, and the rest in …* You see, I

need the money for the redemption of the mortgage.”

“That places me in a difficulty,” remarked Chichikov.

“Ten thousand roubles is all that at the moment I have

available.” As a matter of fact, this was not true, seeing

that, counting also the money which he had borrowed of

Kostanzhoglo, he had at his disposal twenty thousand.

His real reason for hesitating was that he disliked the idea

*Here, in the original, a word is missing.

321

Gogolof making so large a payment in a lump sum.

“I must repeat my request, Paul Ivanovitch,” said

Khlobuev, “—namely, that you pay me at least fifteen

thousand immediately.”

“The odd five thousand I will lend you,” put in Platon

to Chichikov.

“Indeed?” exclaimed Chichikov as he reflected: “So he

also lends money!”

In the end Chichikov’s dispatch-box was brought from

the koliaska, and Khlobuev received thence ten thousand

roubles, together with a promise that the remaining five

thousand should be forthcoming on the morrow; though

the promise was given only after Chichikov had first pro-

posed that three thousand should be brought on the day

named, and the rest be left over for two or three days

longer, if not for a still more protracted period. The truth

was that Paul Ivanovitch hated parting with money. No

matter how urgent a situation might have been, he would

still have preferred to pay a sum to-morrow rather than

to-day. In other words, he acted as we all do, for we all

like keeping a petitioner waiting. “Let him rub his back in

the hall for a while,” we say. “Surely he can bide his time a

little?” Yet of the fact that every hour may be precious to

the poor wretch, and that his business may suffer from the

delay, we take no account. “Good sir,” we say, “pray come

again to-morrow. To-day I have no time to spare you.”

“Where do you intend henceforth to live?” inquired

Platon. “Have you any other property to which you can

retire?”

“No,” replied Khlobuev. “I shall remove to the town,

where I possess a small villa. That would have been neces-

sary, in any case, for the children’s sake. You see, they

must have instruction in God’s word, and also lessons in

music and dancing; and not for love or money can these

things be procured in the country.

“Nothing to eat, yet dancing lessons for his children!”

reflected Chichikov.

“An extraordinary man!” was Platon’s unspoken com-

ment.

“However, we must contrive to wet our bargain some-

how,” continued Khlobuev. “Hi, Kirushka! Bring that bottle

of champagne.”

322

Dead Souls“Nothing to eat, yet champagne to drink!” reflected

Chichikov. As for Platon, he did not know what to think.

In Khlobuev’s eyes it was de rigueur that he should pro-

vide a guest with champagne; but, though he had sent to

the town for some, he had been met with a blank refusal

to forward even a bottle of kvass on credit. Only the

discovery of a French dealer who had recently transferred

his business from St. Petersburg, and opened a connec-

tion on a system of general credit, saved the situation by

placing Khlobuev under the obligation of patronising him.

The company drank three glassfuls apiece, and so grew

more cheerful. In particular did Khlobuev expand, and

wax full of civility and friendliness, and scatter witticisms

and anecdotes to right and left. What knowledge of men

and the world did his utterances display! How well and

accurately could he divine things! With what appositeness

did he sketch the neighbouring landowners! How clearly

he exposed their faults and failings! How thoroughly he

knew the story of certain ruined gentry—the story of how,

why, and through what cause they had fallen upon evil

days! With what comic originality could he describe their

little habits and customs!

In short, his guests found themselves charmed with his

discourse, and felt inclined to vote him a man of first-

rate intellect.

“What most surprises me,” said Chichikov, “is how, in

view of your ability, you come to be so destitute of means

or resources.”

“But I have plenty of both,” said Khlobuev, and with

that went on to deliver himself of a perfect avalanche of

projects. Yet those projects proved to be so uncouth, so

clumsy, so little the outcome of a knowledge of men and

things, that his hearers could only shrug their shoulders

and mentally exclaim: “Good Lord! What a difference be-

tween worldly wisdom and the capacity to use it!” In

every case the projects in question were based upon the

imperative necessity of at once procuring from somewhere

two hundred—or at least one hundred—thousand roubles.

That done (so Khlobuev averred), everything would fall

into its proper place, the holes in his pockets would be-

come stopped, his income would be quadrupled, and he

would find himself in a position to liquidate his debts in

323

Gogolfull. Nevertheless he ended by saying: “What would you

advise me to do? I fear that the philanthropist who would

lend me two hundred thousand roubles or even a hundred

thousand, does not exist. It is not God’s will that he

should.”

“Good gracious!” inwardly ejaculated Chichikov. “To sup-

pose that God would send such a fool two hundred thou-

sand roubles!”

“However,” went on Khlobuev, “I possess an aunt worth

three millions—a pious old woman who gives freely to

churches and monasteries, but finds a difficulty in helping

her neighbour. At the same time, she is a lady of the old

school, and worth having a peep at. Her canaries alone

number four hundred, and, in addition, there is an army

of pug-dogs, hangers-on, and servants. Even the young-

est of the servants is sixty, but she calls them all ‘young

fellows,’ and if a guest happens to offend her during din-

ner, she orders them to leave him out when handing out

the dishes. There’s a woman for you!”

Platon laughed.

“And what may her family name be?” asked Chichikov.

“And where does she live?”

“She lives in the county town, and her name is Alexandra

Ivanovna Khanasarov.”

“Then why do you not apply to her?” asked Platon ear-

nestly. “It seems to me that, once she realised the posi-

tion of your family, she could not possibly refuse you.”

“Alas! nothing is to be looked for from that quarter,”

replied Khlobuev. “My aunt is of a very stubborn disposi-

tion—a perfect stone of a woman. Moreover, she has around

her a sufficient band of favourites already. In particular is

there a fellow who is aiming for a Governorship, and to

that end has managed to insinuate himself into the circle

of her kinsfolk. By the way,” the speaker added, turning

to Platon, “would you do me a favour? Next week I am

giving a dinner to the associated guilds of the town.”

Platon stared. He had been unaware that both in our

capitals and in our provincial towns there exists a class of

men whose lives are an enigma—men who, though they

will seem to have exhausted their substance, and to have

become enmeshed in debt, will suddenly be reported as in

funds, and on the point of giving a dinner! And though,

324

Dead Soulsat this dinner, the guests will declare that the festival is

bound to be their host’s last fling, and that for a certainty

he will be haled to prison on the morrow, ten years or more

will elapse, and the rascal will still be at liberty, even though,

in the meanwhile, his debts will have increased!

In the same way did the conduct of Khlobuev’s menage

afford a curious phenomenon, for one day the house would

be the scene of a solemn Te Deum, performed by a priest

in vestments, and the next of a stage play performed by a

troupe of French actors in theatrical costume. Again, one

day would see not a morsel of bread in the house, and the

next day a banquet and generous largesse given to a party

of artists and sculptors. During these seasons of scarcity

(sufficiently severe to have led any one but Khlobuev to

seek suicide by hanging or shooting), the master of the

house would be preserved from rash action by his strongly

religious disposition, which, contriving in some curious

way to conform with his irregular mode of life, enabled

him to fall back upon reading the lives of saints, ascetics,

and others of the type which has risen superior to its

misfortunes. And at such times his spirit would become

softened, his thoughts full of gentleness, and his eyes wet

with tears; he would fall to saying his prayers, and invari-

ably some strange coincidence would bring an answer

thereto in the shape of an unexpected measure of assis-

tance. That is to say, some former friend of his would

remember him, and send him a trifle in the way of money;

or else some female visitor would be moved by his story

to let her impulsive, generous heart proffer him a hand-

some gift; or else a suit whereof tidings had never even

reached his ears would end by being decided in his favour.

And when that happened he would reverently acknowl-

edge the immensity of the mercy of Providence, gratefully

tender thanksgiving for the same, and betake himself again

to his irregular mode of existence.

“Somehow I feel sorry for the man,” said Platon when

he and Chichikov had taken leave of their host, and left

the house.

“Perhaps so, but he is a hopeless prodigal,” replied the

other. “Personally I find it impossible to compassionate

such fellows.”

And with that the pair ceased to devote another thought

325

Gogolto Khlobuev. In the case of Platon, this was because he

contemplated the fortunes of his fellows with the lethar-

gic, half-somnolent eye which he turned upon all the rest

of the world; for though the sight of distress of others

would cause his heart to contract and feel full of sympa-

thy, the impression thus produced never sank into the

depths of his being. Accordingly, before many minutes

were over he had ceased to bestow a single thought upon

his late host. With Chichikov, however, things were differ-

ent. Whereas Platon had ceased to think of Khlobuev no

more than he had ceased to think of himself, Chichikov’s

mind had strayed elsewhere, for the reason that it had

become taken up with grave meditation on the subject of

the purchase just made. Suddenly finding himself no longer

a fictitious proprietor, but the owner of a real, an actually

existing, estate, he became contemplative, and his plans

and ideas assumed such a serious vein as imparted to his

features an unconsciously important air.

“Patience and hard work!” he muttered to himself. “The

thing will not be difficult, for with those two requisites I

have been familiar from the days of my swaddling clothes.

Yes, no novelty will they be to me. Yet, in middle age,

shall I be able to compass the patience whereof I was

capable in my youth?”

However, no matter how he regarded the future, and no

matter from what point of view he considered his recent

acquisition, he could see nothing but advantage likely to

accrue from the bargain. For one thing, he might be able

to proceed so that, first the whole of the estate should be

mortgaged, and then the better portions of land sold out-

right. Or he might so contrive matters as to manage the

property for a while (and thus become a landowner like

Kostanzhoglo, whose advice, as his neighbour and his bene-

factor, he intended always to follow), and then to dispose

of the property by private treaty (provided he did not

wish to continue his ownership), and still to retain in his

hands the dead and abandoned souls. And another pos-

sible coup occurred to his mind. That is to say, he might

contrive to withdraw from the district without having re-

paid Kostanzhoglo at all! Truly a splendid idea! Yet it is

only fair to say that the idea was not one of Chichikov’s

own conception. Rather, it had presented itself—mock-

326

Dead Soulsing, laughing, and winking—unbidden. Yet the impudent,

the wanton thing! Who is the procreator of suddenly born

ideas of the kind? The thought that he was now a real, an

actual, proprietor instead of a fictitious—that he was now

a proprietor of real land, real rights of timber and pasture,

and real serfs who existed not only in the imagination,

but also in veritable actuality—greatly elated our hero.

So he took to dancing up and down in his seat, to rubbing

his hands together, to winking at himself, to holding his

fist, trumpet-wise, to his mouth (while making believe to

execute a march), and even to uttering aloud such en-

couraging nicknames and phrases as “bulldog” and “little

fat capon.” Then suddenly recollecting that he was not

alone, he hastened to moderate his behaviour and en-

deavoured to stifle the endless flow of his good spirits;

with the result that when Platon, mistaking certain sounds

for utterances addressed to himself, inquired what his

companion had said, the latter retained the presence of

mind to reply “Nothing.”

Presently, as Chichikov gazed about him, he saw that

for some time past the koliaska had been skirting a beau-

tiful wood, and that on either side the road was bordered

with an edging of birch trees, the tenderly-green, recently-

opened leaves of which caused their tall, slender trunks to

show up with the whiteness of a snowdrift. Likewise night-

ingales were warbling from the recesses of the foliage, and

some wood tulips were glowing yellow in the grass. Next

(and almost before Chichikov had realised how he came to

be in such a beautiful spot when, but a moment before,

there had been visible only open fields) there glimmered

among the trees the stony whiteness of a church, with,

on the further side of it, the intermittent, foliage-buried

line of a fence; while from the upper end of a village

street there was advancing to meet the vehicle a gentle-

man with a cap on his head, a knotted cudgel in his hands,

and a slender-limbed English dog by his side.

“This is my brother,” said Platon. “Stop, coachman.”

And he descended from the koliaska, while Chichikov fol-

lowed his example. Yarb and the strange dog saluted one

another, and then the active, thin-legged, slender-tongued

Azor relinquished his licking of Yarb’s blunt jowl, licked

Platon’s hands instead, and, leaping upon Chichikov, slob-

327

Gogolbered right into his ear.

The two brothers embraced.

“Really, Platon,” said the gentleman (whose name was

Vassili), “what do you mean by treating me like this?”

“How so?” said Platon indifferently.

“What? For three days past I have seen and heard noth-

ing of you! A groom from Pietukh’s brought your cob

home, and told me you had departed on an expedition

with some barin. At least you might have sent me word as

to your destination and the probable length of your ab-

sence. What made you act so? God knows what I have not

been wondering!”

“Does it matter?” rejoined Platon. “I forgot to send you

word, and we have been no further than Constantine’s

(who, with our sister, sends you his greeting). By the

way, may I introduce Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov?”

The pair shook hands with one another. Then, doffing

their caps, they embraced.

“What sort of man is this Chichikov?” thought Vassili.

“As a rule my brother Platon is not over-nice in his choice

of acquaintances.” And, eyeing our hero as narrowly as

civility permitted, he saw that his appearance was that of

a perfectly respectable individual.

Chichikov returned Vassili’s scrutiny with a similar ob-

servance of the dictates of civility, and perceived that he

was shorter than Platon, that his hair was of a darker

shade, and that his features, though less handsome, con-

tained far more life, animation, and kindliness than did

his brother’s. Clearly he indulged in less dreaming, though

that was an aspect which Chichikov little regarded.

“I have made up my mind to go touring our Holy Russia

with Paul Ivanovitch,” said Platon. “Perhaps it will rid me

of my melancholy.”

“What has made you come to such a sudden decision?”

asked the perplexed Vassili (very nearly he added: “Fancy

going travelling with a man whose acquaintance you have

just made, and who may turn out to be a rascal or the

devil knows what!” But, in spite of his distrust, he con-

tented himself with another covert scrutiny of Chichikov,

and this time came to the conclusion that there was no

fault to be found with his exterior).

The party turned to the right, and entered the gates of

328

Dead Soulsan ancient courtyard attached to an old-fashioned house

of a type no longer built—the type which has huge gables

supporting a high-pitched roof. In the centre of the court-

yard two great lime trees covered half the surrounding

space with shade, while beneath them were ranged a num-

ber of wooden benches, and the whole was encircled with

a ring of blossoming lilacs and cherry trees which, like a

beaded necklace, reinforced the wooden fence, and al-

most buried it beneath their clusters of leaves and flow-

ers. The house, too, stood almost concealed by this green-

ery, except that the front door and the windows peered

pleasantly through the foliage, and that here and there

between the stems of the trees there could be caught

glimpses of the kitchen regions, the storehouses, and the

cellar. Lastly, around the whole stood a grove, from the

recesses of which came the echoing songs of nightingales.

Involuntarily the place communicated to the soul a sort

of quiet, restful feeling, so eloquently did it speak of that

care-free period when every one lived on good terms with

his neighbour, and all was simple and unsophisticated.

Vassili invited Chichikov to seat himself, and the party

approached, for that purpose, the benches under the lime

trees; after which a youth of about seventeen, and clad in

a red shirt, brought decanters containing various kinds of

kvass (some of them as thick as syrup, and others hissing

like aerated lemonade), deposited the same upon the table,

and, taking up a spade which he had left leaning against a

tree, moved away towards the garden. The reason of this

was that in the brothers’ household, as in that of

Kostanzhoglo, no servants were kept, since the whole staff

were rated as gardeners, and performed that duty in rota-

tion—Vassili holding that domestic service was not a

specialised calling, but one to which any one might con-

tribute a hand, and therefore one which did not require

special menials to be kept for the purpose. Moreover, he

held that the average Russian peasant remains active and

willing (rather than lazy) only so long as he wears a shirt

and a peasant’s smock; but that as soon as ever he finds

himself put into a German tailcoat, he becomes awkward,

sluggish, indolent, disinclined to change his vest or take

a bath, fond of sleeping in his clothes, and certain to

breed fleas and bugs under the German apparel. And it

329

Gogolmay be that Vassili was right. At all events, the brothers’

peasantry were exceedingly well clad—the women, in par-

ticular, having their head-dresses spangled with gold, and

the sleeves of their blouses embroidered after the fashion

of a Turkish shawl.

“You see here the species of kvass for which our house

has long been famous,” said Vassili to Chichikov. The lat-

ter poured himself out a glassful from the first decanter

which he lighted upon, and found the contents to be

linden honey of a kind never tasted by him even in Po-

land, seeing that it had a sparkle like that of champagne,

and also an effervescence which sent a pleasant spray from

the mouth into the nose.

“Nectar!” he proclaimed. Then he took some from a sec-

ond decanter. It proved to be even better than the first.

“A beverage of beverages!” he exclaimed. “At your re-

spected brother-in-law’s I tasted the finest syrup which

has ever come my way, but here I have tasted the very

finest kvass.”

“Yet the recipe for the syrup also came from here,” said

Vassili, “seeing that my sister took it with her. By the

way, to what part of the country, and to what places, are

you thinking of travelling?”

“To tell the truth,” replied Chichikov, rocking himself to

and fro on the bench, and smoothing his knee with his

hand, and gently inclining his head, “I am travelling less

on my own affairs than on the affairs of others. That is to

say, General Betristchev, an intimate friend, and, I might

add, a generous benefactor of mine, has charged me with

commissions to some of his relatives. Nevertheless, though

relatives are relatives, I may say that I am travelling on

my own account as well, in that, in addition to possible

benefit to my health, I desire to see the world and the

whirligig of humanity, which constitute, to so speak, a

living book, a second course of education.”

Vassili took thought. “The man speaks floridly,” he re-

flected, “yet his words contain a certain element of truth.”

After a moment’s silence he added to Platon: “I am be-

ginning to think that the tour might help you to bestir

yourself. At present you are in a condition of mental slum-

ber. You have fallen asleep, not so much from weariness

or satiety, as through a lack of vivid perceptions and im-

330

Dead Soulspressions. For myself, I am your complete antithesis. I

should be only too glad if I could feel less acutely, if I

could take things less to heart.”

“Emotion has become a disease with you,” said Platon.

“You seek your own troubles, and make your own anxieties.”

“How can you say that when ready-made anxieties greet

one at every step?” exclaimed Vassili. “For example, have

you heard of the trick which Lienitsin has just played us—

of his seizing the piece of vacant land whither our peas-

ants resort for their sports? That piece I would not sell for

all the money in the world. It has long been our peasants’

play-ground, and all the traditions of our village are bound

up with it. Moreover, for me, old custom is a sacred thing

for which I would gladly sacrifice everything else.”

“Lienitsin cannot have known of this, or he would not

have seized the land,” said Platon. “He is a newcomer,

just arrived from St. Petersburg. A few words of explana-

tion ought to meet the case.”

“But he does know of what I have stated; he does know

of it. Purposely I sent him word to that affect, yet he has

returned me the rudest of answers.”

“Then go yourself and explain matters to him.”

“No, I will not do that; he has tried to carry off things

with too high a hand. But you can go if you like.”

“I would certainly go were it not that I scarcely like to

interfere. Also, I am a man whom he could easily hood-

wink and outwit.”

“Would it help you if I were to go?” put in Chichikov.

“Pray enlighten me as to the matter.”

Vassili glanced at the speaker, and thought to himself:

“What a passion the man has for travelling!”

“Yes, pray give me an idea of the kind of fellow,” re-

peated Chichikov, “and also outline to me the affair.”

“I should be ashamed to trouble you with such an un-

pleasant commission,” replied Vassili. “He is a man whom

I take to be an utter rascal. Originally a member of a

family of plain dvoriane in this province, he entered the

Civil Service in St. Petersburg, then married some one’s

natural daughter in that city, and has returned to lord it

with a high hand. I cannot bear the tone he adopts. Our

folk are by no means fools. They do not look upon the

current fashion as the Tsar’s ukaz any more than they look

331

Gogolupon St. Petersburg as the Church.”

“Naturally,” said Chichikov. “But tell me more of the

particulars of the quarrel.”

“They are these. He needs additional land and, had he

not acted as he has done, I would have given him some

land elsewhere for nothing; but, as it is, the pestilent

fellow has taken it into his head to—”

“I think I had better go and have a talk with him. That

might settle the affair. Several times have people charged

me with similar commissions, and never have they re-

pented of it. General Betristchev is an example.”

“Nevertheless I am ashamed that you should be put to

the annoyance of having to converse with such a fellow.”

[At this point there occurs a long hiatus.]

“And above all things, such a transaction would need to

be carried through in secret,” said Chichikov. “True, the

law does not forbid such things, but there is always the

risk of a scandal.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Lienitsin with head bent down.

“Then we agree!” exclaimed Chichikov. “How charming!

As I say, my business is both legal and illegal. Though

needing to effect a mortgage, I desire to put no one to

the risk of having to pay the two roubles on each living

soul; wherefore I have conceived the idea of relieving land-

owners of that distasteful obligation by acquiring dead

and absconded souls who have failed to disappear from

the revision list. This enables me at once to perform an

act of Christian charity and to remove from the shoulders

of our more impoverished proprietors the burden of tax-

payment upon souls of the kind specified. Should you

yourself care to do business with me, we will draw up a

formal purchase agreement as though the souls in ques-

tion were still alive.”

“But it would be such a curious arrangement,” mut-

tered Lienitsin, moving his chair and himself a little fur-

ther away. “It would be an arrangement which, er—er—”

“Would involve you in no scandal whatever, seeing that

the affair would be carried through in secret. Moreover,

between friends who are well-disposed towards one an-

other—”

332

Dead Souls“Nevertheless—”

Chichikov adopted a firmer and more decided tone. “I

repeat that there would be no scandal,” he said. “The

transaction would take place as between good friends,

and as between friends of mature age, and as between

friends of good status, and as between friends who know

how to keep their own counsel.” And, so saying, he looked

his interlocutor frankly and generously in the eyes.

Nevertheless Lienitsin’s resourcefulness and acumen in

business matters failed to relieve his mind of a certain

perplexity—and the less so since he had contrived to be-

come caught in his own net. Yet, in general, he possessed

neither a love for nor a talent for underhand dealings,

and, had not fate and circumstances favoured Chichikov

by causing Lienitsin’s wife to enter the room at that mo-

ment, things might have turned out very differently from

what they did. Madame was a pale, thin, insignificant-

looking young lady, but none the less a lady who wore her

clothes a la St. Petersburg, and cultivated the society of

persons who were unimpeachably comme il faut. Behind

her, borne in a nurse’s arms, came the first fruits of the

love of husband and wife. Adopting his most telling method

of approach (the method accompanied with a sidelong

inclination of the head and a sort of hop), Chichikov has-

tened to greet the lady from the metropolis, and then the

baby. At first the latter started to bellow disapproval, but

the words “Agoo, agoo, my pet!” added to a little crack-

ing of the fingers and a sight of a beautiful seal on a

watch chain, enabled Chichikov to weedle the infant into

his arms; after which he fell to swinging it up and down

until he had contrived to raise a smile on its face—a

circumstance which greatly delighted the parents, and fi-

nally inclined the father in his visitor’s favour. Suddenly,

however—whether from pleasure or from some other

cause—the infant misbehaved itself!”

“My God!” cried Madame. “He has gone and spoilt your

frockcoat!”

True enough, on glancing downwards, Chichikov saw that

the sleeve of his brand-new garment had indeed suffered a

hurt. “If I could catch you alone, you little devil,” he

muttered to himself, “I’d shoot you!”

Host, hostess and nurse all ran for eau-de-Cologne, and

333

Gogolfrom three sides set themselves to rub the spot affected.

“Never mind, never mind; it is nothing,” said Chichikov

as he strove to communicate to his features as cheerful

an expression as possible. “What does it matter what a

child may spoil during the golden age of its infancy?”

To himself he remarked: “The little brute! Would it could

be devoured by wolves. It has made only too good a shot,

the cussed young ragamuffin!”

How, after this—after the guest had shown such inno-

cent affection for the little one, and magnanimously paid

for his so doing with a brand-new suit—could the father

remain obdurate? Nevertheless, to avoid setting a bad

example to the countryside, he and Chichikov agreed to

carry through the transaction privately, lest, otherwise, a

scandal should arise.

“In return,” said Chichikov, “would you mind doing me

the following favour? I desire to mediate in the matter of

your difference with the Brothers Platonov. I believe that

you wish to acquire some additional land? Is not that so?”

[Here there occurs a hiatus in the original.]

Everything in life fulfils its function, and Chichikov’s

tour in search of a fortune was carried out so successfully

that not a little money passed into his pockets. The sys-

tem employed was a good one: he did not steal, he merely

used. And every one of us at times does the same: one

man with regard to Government timber, and another with

regard to a sum belonging to his employer, while a third

defrauds his children for the sake of an actress, and a

fourth robs his peasantry for the sake of smart furniture

or a carriage. What can one do when one is surrounded on

every side with roguery, and everywhere there are insanely

expensive restaurants, masked balls, and dances to the

music of gipsy bands? To abstain when every one else is

indulging in these things, and fashion commands, is diffi-

cult indeed!

Chichikov was for setting forth again, but the roads had

now got into a bad state, and, in addition, there was in

preparation a second fair—one for the dvoriane only. The

former fair had been held for the sale of horses, cattle,

334

Dead Soulscheese, and other peasant produce, and the buyers had

been merely cattle-jobbers and kulaks; but this time the

function was to be one for the sale of manorial produce

which had been bought up by wholesale dealers at Nizhni

Novgorod, and then transferred hither. To the fair, of course,

came those ravishers of the Russian purse who, in the

shape of Frenchmen with pomades and Frenchwomen with

hats, make away with money earned by blood and hard

work, and, like the locusts of Egypt (to use Kostanzhoglo’s

term) not only devour their prey, but also dig holes in the

ground and leave behind their eggs.

Although, unfortunately, the occurrence of a bad har-

vest retained many landowners at their country houses,

the local tchinovniks (whom the failure of the harvest did

NOT touch) proceeded to let themselves go—as also, to

their undoing, did their wives. The reading of books of the

type diffused, in these modern days, for the inoculation

of humanity with a craving for new and superior amenities

of life had caused every one to conceive a passion for

experimenting with the latest luxury; and to meet this

want the French wine merchant opened a new establish-

ment in the shape of a restaurant as had never before

been heard of in the province—a restaurant where supper

could be procured on credit as regarded one-half, and for

an unprecedentedly low sum as regarded the other. This

exactly suited both heads of boards and clerks who were

living in hope of being able some day to resume their

bribes-taking from suitors. There also developed a ten-

dency to compete in the matter of horses and liveried

flunkeys; with the result that despite the damp and snowy

weather exceedingly elegant turnouts took to parading

backwards and forwards. Whence these equipages had come

God only knows, but at least they would not have dis-

graced St. Petersburg. From within them merchants and

attorneys doffed their caps to ladies, and inquired after

their health, and likewise it became a rare sight to see a

bearded man in a rough fur cap, since every one now went

about clean-shaven and with dirty teeth, after the Euro-

pean fashion.

“Sir, I beg of you to inspect my goods,” said a trades-

man as Chichikov was passing his establishment. “Within

my doors you will find a large variety of clothing.”

335

Gogol“Have you a cloth of bilberry-coloured check?” inquired

the person addressed.

“I have cloths of the finest kind,” replied the trades-

man, raising his cap with one hand, and pointing to his

shop with the other. Chichikov entered, and in a trice the

proprietor had dived beneath the counter, and appeared

on the other side of it, with his back to his wares and his

face towards the customer. Leaning forward on the tips of

his fingers, and indicating his merchandise with just the

suspicion of a nod, he requested the gentleman to specify

exactly the species of cloth which he required.

“A cloth with an olive-coloured or a bottle-tinted spot

in its pattern—anything in the nature of bilberry,” ex-

plained Chichikov.

“That being so, sir, I may say that I am about to show

you clothes of a quality which even our illustrious capi-

tals could not surpass. Hi, boy! Reach down that roll up

there—number 34. No, not that one, fool! Such fellows

as you are always too good for your job. There—hand it

to me. This is indeed a nice pattern!”

Unfolding the garment, the tradesman thrust it close to

Chichikov’s nose in order that he might not only handle,

but also smell it.

“Excellent, but not what I want,” pronounced Chichikov.

“Formerly I was in the Custom’s Department, and there-

fore wear none but cloth of the latest make. What I want

is of a ruddier pattern than this—not exactly a bottle-

tinted pattern, but something approaching bilberry.”

“I understand, sir. Of course you require only the very

newest thing. A cloth of that kind I do possess, sir, and

though excessive in price, it is of a quality to match.”

Carrying the roll of stuff to the light—even stepping

into the street for the purpose—the shopman unfolded

his prize with the words, “A truly beautiful shade! A cloth

of smoked grey, shot with flame colour!”

The material met with the customer’s approval, a price

was agreed upon, and with incredible celerity the vendor

made up the purchase into a brown-paper parcel, and

stowed it away in Chichikov’s koliaska.

At this moment a voice asked to be shown a black

frockcoat.

“The devil take me if it isn’t Khlobuev!” muttered our

336

Dead Soulshero, turning his back upon the newcomer. Unfortunately

the other had seen him.

“Come, come, Paul Ivanovitch!” he expostulated. “Surely

you do not intend to overlook me? I have been searching

for you everywhere, for I have something important to

say to you.”

“My dear sir, my very dear sir,” said Chichikov as he

pressed Khlobuev’s hand, “I can assure you that, had I

the necessary leisure, I should at all times be charmed to

converse with you.” And mentally he added: “Would that

the Evil One would fly away with you!”

Almost at the same time Murazov, the great landowner,

entered the shop. As he did so our hero hastened to ex-

claim: “Why, it is Athanasi Vassilievitch! How are you, my

very dear sir?”

“Well enough,” replied Murazov, removing his cap

(Khlobuev and the shopman had already done the same).

“How, may I ask, are you?”

“But poorly,” replied Chichikov, “for of late I have been

troubled with indigestion, and my sleep is bad. I do not

get sufficient exercise.”

However, instead of probing deeper into the subject of

Chichikov’s ailments, Murazov turned to Khlobuev.

“I saw you enter the shop,” he said, “and therefore

followed you, for I have something important for your

ear. Could you spare me a minute or two?”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Khlobuev, and the pair left

the shop together.

“I wonder what is afoot between them,” said Chichikov

to himself.

“A wise and noble gentleman, Athanasi Vassilievitch!”

remarked the tradesman. Chichikov made no reply save a

gesture.

“Paul Ivanovitch, I have been looking for you every-

where,” Lienitsin’s voice said from behind him, while again

the tradesman hastened to remove his cap. “Pray come

home with me, for I have something to say to you.”

Chichikov scanned the speaker’s face, but could make

nothing of it. Paying the tradesman for the cloth, he left

the shop.

Meanwhile Murazov had conveyed Khlobuev to his rooms.

“Tell me,” he said to his guest, “exactly how your affairs

337

Gogolstand. I take it that, after all, your aunt left you some-

thing?”

“It would be difficult to say whether or not my affairs are

improved,” replied Khlobuev. “True, fifty souls and thirty

thousand roubles came to me from Madame Khanasarova,

but I had to pay them away to satisfy my debts. Conse-

quently I am once more destitute. But the important point

is that there was trickery connected with the legacy, and

shameful trickery at that. Yes, though it may surprise you,

it is a fact that that fellow Chichikov—”

“Yes, Semen Semenovitch, but, before you go on to

speak of Chichikov, pray tell me something about your-

self, and how much, in your opinion, would be sufficient

to clear you of your difficulties?”

“My difficulties are grievous,” replied Khlobuev. “To rid my-

self of them, and also to have enough to go on with, I should

need to acquire at least a hundred thousand roubles, if not

more. In short, things are becoming impossible for me.”

“And, had you the money, what should you do with it?”

“I should rent a tenement, and devote myself to the

education of my children. Not a thought should I give to

myself, for my career is over, seeing that it is impossible

for me to re-enter the Civil Service and I am good for

nothing else.”

“Nevertheless, when a man is leading an idle life he is

apt to incur temptations which shun his better-employed

brother.”

“Yes, but beyond question I am good for nothing, so

broken is my health, and such a martyr I am to dyspepsia.”

“But how to you propose to live without working? How

can a man like you exist without a post or a position of

any kind? Look around you at the works of God. Every-

thing has its proper function, and pursues its proper course.

Even a stone can be used for one purpose or another.

How, then, can it be right for a man who is a thinking

being to remain a drone?”

“But I should not be a drone, for I should employ my-

self with the education of my children.”

“No, Semen Semenovitch—no: that you would find the

hardest task of all. For how can a man educate his chil-

dren who has never even educated himself? Instruction

can be imparted to children only through the medium of

338

Dead Soulsexample; and would a life like yours furnish them with a

profitable example—a life which has been spent in idle-

ness and the playing of cards? No, Semen Semenovitch.

You had far better hand your children over to me. Other-

wise they will be ruined. Do not think that I am jesting.

Idleness has wrecked your life, and you must flee from it.

Can a man live with nothing to keep him in place? Even a

journeyman labourer who earns the barest pittance may

take an interest in his occupation.”

“Athanasi Vassilievitch, I have tried to overcome my-

self, but what further resource lies open to me? Can I who

am old and incapable re-enter the Civil Service and spend

year after year at a desk with youths who are just starting

their careers? Moreover, I have lost the trick of taking

bribes; I should only hinder both myself and others; while,

as you know, it is a department which has an established

caste of its own. Therefore, though I have considered, and

even attempted to obtain, every conceivable post, I find

myself incompetent for them all. Only in a monastery

should I—”

“Nay, nay. Monasteries, again, are only for those who

have worked. To those who have spent their youth in dis-

sipation such havens say what the ant said to the dragon-

fly—namely, ‘Go you away, and return to your dancing.’

Yes, even in a monastery do folk toil and toil—they do

not sit playing whist.” Murazov looked at Khlobuev, and

added: “Semen Semenovitch, you are deceiving both your-

self and me.”

Poor Khlobuev could not utter a word in reply, and

Murazov began to feel sorry for him.

“Listen, Semen Semenovitch,” he went on. “I know that

you say your prayers, and that you go to church, and that

you observe both Matins and Vespers, and that, though

averse to early rising, you leave your bed at four o’clock

in the morning before the household fires have been lit.”

“Ah, Athanasi Vassilievitch,” said Khlobuev, “that is an-

other matter altogether. That I do, not for man’s sake,

but for the sake of Him who has ordered all things here on

earth. Yes, I believe that He at least can feel compassion

for me, that He at least, though I be foul and lowly, will

pardon me and receive me when all men have cast me out,

and my best friend has betrayed me and boasted that he

339

Gogolhas done it for a good end.”

Khlobuev’s face was glowing with emotion, and from

the older man’s eyes also a tear had started.

“You will do well to hearken unto Him who is merciful,”

he said. “But remember also that, in the eyes of the All-

Merciful, honest toil is of equal merit with a prayer. There-

fore take unto yourself whatsoever task you may, and do

it as though you were doing it, not unto man, but unto

God. Even though to your lot there should fall but the

cleaning of a floor, clean that floor as though it were

being cleaned for Him alone. And thence at least this

good you will reap: that there will remain to you no time

for what is evil—for card playing, for feasting, for all the

life of this gay world. Are you acquainted with Ivan

Potapitch?”

“Yes, not only am I acquainted with him, but I also

greatly respect him.”

“Time was when Ivan Potapitch was a merchant worth

half a million roubles. In everything did he look but for

gain, and his affairs prospered exceedingly, so much so

that he was able to send his son to be educated in France,

and to marry his daughter to a General. And whether in

his office or at the Exchange, he would stop any friend

whom he encountered and carry him off to a tavern to

drink, and spend whole days thus employed. But at last

he became bankrupt, and God sent him other misfortunes

also. His son! Ah, well! Ivan Potapitch is now my steward,

for he had to begin life over again. Yet once more his

affairs are in order, and, had it been his wish, he could

have restarted in business with a capital of half a million

roubles. ‘But no,’ he said. ‘A steward am I, and a steward

will I remain to the end; for, from being full-stomached

and heavy with dropsy, I have become strong and well.’

Not a drop of liquor passes his lips, but only cabbage

soup and gruel. And he prays as none of the rest of us

pray, and he helps the poor as none of the rest of us help

them; and to this he would add yet further charity if his

means permitted him to do so.”

Poor Khlobuev remained silent, as before.

The elder man took his two hands in his.

“Semen Semenovitch,” he said, “you cannot think how

much I pity you, or how much I have had you in my

340

Dead Soulsthoughts. Listen to me. In the monastery there is a re-

cluse who never looks upon a human face. Of all men

whom I know he has the broadest mind, and he breaks not

his silence save to give advice. To him I went and said

that I had a friend (though I did not actually mention

your name) who was in great trouble of soul. Suddenly

the recluse interrupted me with the words: ‘God’s work

first, and our own last. There is need for a church to be

built, but no money wherewith to build it. Money must

be collected to that end.’ Then he shut to the wicket. I

wondered to myself what this could mean, and concluded

that the recluse had been unwilling to accord me his coun-

sel. Next I repaired to the Archimandrite, and had scarce

reached his door when he inquired of me whether I could

commend to him a man meet to be entrusted with the

collection of alms for a church—a man who should be-

long to the dvoriane or to the more lettered merchants,

but who would guard the trust as he would guard the

salvation of his soul. On the instant thought I to myself:

‘Why should not the Holy Father appoint my friend Semen

Semenovitch? For the way of suffering would benefit him

greatly; and as he passed with his ledger from landowner

to peasant, and from peasant to townsman, he would

learn where folk dwell, and who stands in need of aught,

and thus would become better acquainted with the coun-

tryside than folk who dwell in cities. And, thus become,

he would find that his services were always in demand.’

Only of late did the Governor-General say to me that,

could he but be furnished with the name of a secretary

who should know his work not only by the book but also

by experience, he would give him a great sum, since noth-

ing is to be learned by the former means, and, through it,

much confusion arises.”

“You confound me, you overwhelm me!” said Khlobuev,

staring at his companion in open-eyed astonishment. “I

can scarcely believe that your words are true, seeing that

for such a trust an active, indefatigable man would be

necessary. Moreover, how could I leave my wife and chil-

dren unprovided for?”

“Have no fear,” said Murazov, “I myself will take them

under my care, as well as procure for the children a tutor.

Far better and nobler were it for you to be travelling with

341

Gogola wallet, and asking alms on behalf of God, then to be

remaining here and asking alms for yourself alone. Like-

wise, I will furnish you with a tilt-waggon, so that you

may be saved some of the hardships of the journey, and

thus be preserved in good health. Also, I will give you

some money for the journey, in order that, as you pass on

your way, you may give to those who stand in greater

need than their fellows. Thus, if, before giving, you assure

yourself that the recipient of the alms is worthy of the

same, you will do much good; and as you travel you will

become acquainted with all men and sundry, and they will

treat you, not as a tchinovnik to be feared, but as one to

whom, as a petitioner on behalf of the Church, they may

unloose their tongues without peril.”

“I feel that the scheme is a splendid one, and would

gladly bear my part in it were it not likely to exceed my

strength.”

“What is there that does not exceed your strength?”

said Murazov. “Nothing is wholly proportionate to it—

everything surpasses it. Help from above is necessary: oth-

erwise we are all powerless. Strength comes of prayer, and

of prayer alone. When a man crosses himself, and cries,

‘Lord, have mercy upon me!’ he soon stems the current

and wins to the shore. Nor need you take any prolonged

thought concerning this matter. All that you need do is

to accept it as a commission sent of God. The tilt-waggon

can be prepared for you immediately; and then, as soon

as you have been to the Archimandrite for your book of

accounts and his blessing, you will be free to start on

your journey.”

“I submit myself to you, and accept the commission as

a divine trust.”

And even as Khlobuev spoke he felt renewed vigour and

confidence arise in his soul, and his mind begin to awake

to a sense of hopefulness of eventually being able to put

to flight his troubles. And even as it was, the world seemed

to be growing dim to his eyes… .

Meanwhile, plea after plea had been presented to the

legal authorities, and daily were relatives whom no one

had before heard of putting in an appearance. Yes, like

vultures to a corpse did these good folk come flocking to

the immense property which Madam Khanasarov had left

342

Dead Soulsbehind her. Everywhere were heard rumours against

Chichikov, rumours with regard to the validity of the sec-

ond will, rumours with regard to will number one, and

rumours of larceny and concealment of funds. Also, there

came to hand information with regard both to Chichikov’s

purchase of dead souls and to his conniving at contra-

band goods during his service in the Customs Department.

In short, every possible item of evidence was exhumed,

and the whole of his previous history investigated. How

the authorities had come to suspect and to ascertain all

this God only knows, but the fact remains that there had

fallen into the hands of those authorities information con-

cerning matters of which Chichikov had believed only him-

self and the four walls to be aware. True, for a time these

matters remained within the cognisance of none but the

functionaries concerned, and failed to reach Chichikov’s

ears; but at length a letter from a confidential friend gave

him reason to think that the fat was about to fall into the

fire. Said the letter briefly: “Dear sir, I beg to advise you

that possibly legal trouble is pending, but that you have

no cause for uneasiness, seeing that everything will be

attended to by yours very truly.” Yet, in spite of its tenor,

the epistle reassured its recipient. “What a genius the

fellow is!” thought Chichikov to himself. Next, to com-

plete his satisfaction, his tailor arrived with the new suit

which he had ordered. Not without a certain sense of

pride did our hero inspect the frockcoat of smoked grey

shot with flame colour and look at it from every point of

view, and then try on the breeches—the latter fitting him

like a picture, and quite concealing any deficiencies in the

matter of his thighs and calves (though, when buckled

behind, they left his stomach projecting like a drum).

True, the customer remarked that there appeared to be a

slight tightness under the right armpit, but the smiling

tailor only rejoined that that would cause the waist to fit

all the better. “Sir,” he said triumphantly, “you may rest

assured that the work has been executed exactly as it

ought to have been executed. No one, except in St. Pe-

tersburg, could have done it better.” As a matter of fact,

the tailor himself hailed from St. Petersburg, but called

himself on his signboard “Foreign Costumier from London

and Paris”—the truth being that by the use of a double-

343

Gogolbarrelled flourish of cities superior to mere “Karlsruhe”

and “Copenhagen” he designed to acquire business and

cut out his local rivals.

Chichikov graciously settled the man’s account, and, as

soon as he had gone, paraded at leisure, and con amore,

and after the manner of an artist of aesthetic taste, be-

fore the mirror. Somehow he seemed to look better than

ever in the suit, for his cheeks had now taken on a still

more interesting air, and his chin an added seductiveness,

while his white collar lent tone to his neck, the blue satin

tie heightened the effect of the collar, the fashionable

dickey set off the tie, the rich satin waistcoat emphasised

the dickey, and the smoked-grey-shot-with-flame-colour

frockcoat, shining like silk, splendidly rounded off the

whole. When he turned to the right he looked well: when

he turned to the left he looked even better. In short, it

was a costume worthy of a Lord Chamberlain or the spe-

cies of dandy who shrinks from swearing in the Russian

language, but amply relieves his feelings in the language

of France. Next, inclining his head slightly to one side, our

hero endeavoured to pose as though he were addressing a

middle-aged lady of exquisite refinement; and the result

of these efforts was a picture which any artist might have

yearned to portray. Next, his delight led him gracefully to

execute a hop in ballet fashion, so that the wardrobe

trembled and a bottle of eau-de-Cologne came crashing

to the floor. Yet even this contretemps did not upset him;

he merely called the offending bottle a fool, and then

debated whom first he should visit in his attractive guise.

Suddenly there resounded through the hall a clatter of

spurred heels, and then the voice of a gendarme saying:

“You are commanded to present yourself before the Gov-

ernor-General!” Turning round, Chichikov stared in horror

at the spectacle presented; for in the doorway there was

standing an apparition wearing a huge moustache, a hel-

met surmounted with a horsehair plume, a pair of crossed

shoulder-belts, and a gigantic sword! A whole army might

have been combined into a single individual! And when

Chichikov opened his mouth to speak the apparition re-

peated, “You are commanded to present yourself before

the Governor-General,” and at the same moment our hero

caught sight both of a second apparition outside the door

344

Dead Soulsand of a coach waiting beneath the window. What was to

be done? Nothing whatever was possible. Just as he

stood—in his smoked-grey-shot-with-flame-colour suit—

he had then and there to enter the vehicle, and, shaking

in every limb, and with a gendarme seated by his side, to

start for the residence of the Governor-General.

And even in the hall of that establishment no time was

given him to pull himself together, for at once an aide-

de-camp said: “Go inside immediately, for the Prince is

awaiting you.” And as in a dream did our hero see a ves-

tibule where couriers were being handed dispatches, and

then a salon which he crossed with the thought, “I sup-

pose I am not to be allowed a trial, but shall be sent

straight to Siberia!” And at the thought his heart started

beating in a manner which the most jealous of lovers could

not have rivalled. At length there opened a door, and

before him he saw a study full of portfolios, ledgers, and

dispatch-boxes, with, standing behind them, the gravely

menacing figure of the Prince.

“There stands my executioner,” thought Chichikov to

himself. “He is about to tear me to pieces as a wolf

tears a lamb.”

Indeed, the Prince’s lips were simply quivering with rage.

“Once before did I spare you,” he said, “and allow you

to remain in the town when you ought to have been in

prison: yet your only return for my clemency has been to

revert to a career of fraud—and of fraud as dishonourable

as ever a man engaged in.”

“To what dishonourable fraud do you refer, your High-

ness?” asked Chichikov, trembling from head to foot.

The Prince approached, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Let me tell you,” he said, “that the woman whom you

induced to witness a certain will has been arrested, and

that you will be confronted with her.”

The world seemed suddenly to grow dim before Chichikov’s

sight.

“Your Highness,” he gasped, “I will tell you the whole

truth, and nothing but the truth. I am guilty—yes, I am

guilty; but I am not so guilty as you think, for I was led

away by rascals.”

“That any one can have led you away is impossible,”

retorted the Prince. “Recorded against your name there

345

Gogolstand more felonies than even the most hardened liar could

have invented. I believe that never in your life have you

done a deed not innately dishonourable—that not a ko-

peck have you ever obtained by aught but shameful meth-

ods of trickery and theft, the penalty for which is Siberia

and the knut. But enough of this! From this room you will

be conveyed to prison, where, with other rogues and

thieves, you will be confined until your trial may come

on. And this is lenient treatment on my part, for you are

worse, far worse, than the felons who will be your com-

panions. they are but poor men in smocks and sheepskins,

whereas you—” Without concluding his words, the Prince

shot a glance at Chichikov’s smoked-grey-shot-with-flame-

colour apparel.

Then he touched a bell.

“Your Highness,” cried Chichikov, “have mercy upon me!

You are the father of a family! Spare me for the sake of my

aged mother!”

“Rubbish!” exclaimed the Prince. “Even as before you

besought me for the sake of a wife and children whom you

did not even possess, so now you would speak to me of an

aged mother!”

“Your Highness,” protested Chichikov, “though I am a

wretch and the lowest of rascals, and though it is true

that I lied when I told you that I possessed a wife and

children, I swear that, as God is my witness, it has always

been my desire to possess a wife, and to fulfil all the

duties of a man and a citizen, and to earn the respect of

my fellows and the authorities. But what could be done

against the force of circumstances? By hook or by crook I

have ever been forced to win a living, though confronted

at every step by wiles and temptations and traitorous

enemies and despoilers. So much has this been so that my

life has, throughout, resembled a barque tossed by tem-

pestuous waves, a barque driven at the mercy of the winds.

Ah, I am only a man, your Highness!”

And in a moment the tears had gushed in torrents from

his eyes, and he had fallen forward at the Prince’s feet—

fallen forward just as he was, in his smoked-grey-shot-

with-flame-colour frockcoat, his velvet waistcoat, his satin

tie, and his exquisitely fitting breeches, while from his

neatly brushed pate, as again and again he struck his hand

346

Dead Soulsagainst his forehead, there came an odorous whiff of best-

quality eau-de-Cologne.

“Away with him!” exclaimed the Prince to the gendarme

who had just entered. “Summon the escort to remove

him.”

“Your Highness!” Chichikov cried again as he clasped

the Prince’s knees; but, shuddering all over, and strug-

gling to free himself, the Prince repeated his order for the

prisoner’s removal.

“Your Highness, I say that I will not leave this room

until you have accorded me mercy!” cried Chichikov as he

clung to the Prince’s leg with such tenacity that, frockcoat

and all, he began to be dragged along the floor.

“Away with him, I say!” once more the Prince exclaimed

with the sort of indefinable aversion which one feels at

the sight of a repulsive insect which he cannot summon

up the courage to crush with his boot. So convulsively

did the Prince shudder that Chichikov, clinging to his leg,

received a kick on the nose. Yet still the prisoner retained

his hold; until at length a couple of burly gendarmes tore

him away and, grasping his arms, hurried him—pale, di-

shevelled, and in that strange, half-conscious condition

into which a man sinks when he sees before him only the

dark, terrible figure of death, the phantom which is so

abhorrent to all our natures—from the building. But on

the threshold the party came face to face with Murazov,

and in Chichikov’s heart the circumstance revived a ray of

hope. Wresting himself with almost supernatural strength

from the grasp of the escorting gendarmes, he threw him-

self at the feet of the horror-stricken old man.

“Paul Ivanovitch,” Murazov exclaimed, “what has hap-

pened to you?”

“Save me!” gasped Chichikov. “They are taking me away

to prison and death!”

Yet almost as he spoke the gendarmes seized him again,

and hurried him away so swiftly that Murazov’s reply es-

caped his ears.

A damp, mouldy cell which reeked of soldiers’ boots and

leggings, an unvarnished table, two sorry chairs, a win-

dow closed with a grating, a crazy stove which, while

letting the smoke emerge through its cracks, gave out no

heat—such was the den to which the man who had just

347

Gogolbegun to taste the sweets of life, and to attract the at-

tention of his fellows with his new suit of smoked-grey-

shot-with-flame-colour, now found himself consigned. Not

even necessaries had he been allowed to bring away with

him, nor his dispatch-box which contained all his booty.

No, with the indenture deeds of the dead souls, it was

lodged in the hands of a tchinovnik; and as he thought of

these things Chichikov rolled about the floor, and felt the

cankerous worm of remorse seize upon and gnaw at his

heart, and bite its way ever further and further into that

heart so defenceless against its ravages, until he made up

his mind that, should he have to suffer another twenty-

four hours of this misery, there would no longer be a

Chichikov in the world. Yet over him, as over every one,

there hung poised the All-Saving Hand; and, an hour after

his arrival at the prison, the doors of the gaol opened to

admit Murazov.

Compared with poor Chichikov’s sense of relief when the old

man entered his cell, even the pleasure experienced by a thirsty,

dusty traveller when he is given a drink of clear spring water to

cool his dry, parched throat fades into insignificance.

“Ah, my deliverer!” he cried as he rose from the floor,

where he had been grovelling in heartrending paroxysms

of grief. Seizing the old man’s hand, he kissed it and pressed

it to his bosom. Then, bursting into tears, he added: “God

Himself will reward you for having come to visit an unfor-

tunate wretch!”

Murazov looked at him sorrowfully, and said no more than

“Ah, Paul Ivanovitch, Paul Ivanovitch! What has happened?”

“What has happened?” cried Chichikov. “I have been

ruined by an accursed woman. That was because I could

not do things in moderation—I was powerless to stop

myself in time, Satan tempted me, and drove me from my

senses, and bereft me of human prudence. Yes, truly I

have sinned, I have sinned! Yet how came I so to sin? To

think that a dvorianin—yes, a dvorianin—should be thrown

into prison without process or trial! I repeat, a dvorianin!

Why was I not given time to go home and collect my

effects? Whereas now they are left with no one to look

after them! My dispatch-box, my dispatch-box! It con-

tained my whole property, all that my heart’s blood and

years of toil and want have been needed to acquire. And

348

Dead Soulsnow everything will be stolen, Athanasi Vassilievitch—

everything will be taken from me! My God!”

And, unable to stand against the torrent of grief which

came rushing over his heart once more, he sobbed aloud

in tones which penetrated even the thickness of the prison

walls, and made dull echoes awake behind them. Then,

tearing off his satin tie, and seizing by the collar, the

smoked-grey-shot-with-flame-colour frockcoat, he stripped

the latter from his shoulders.

“Ah, Paul Ivanovitch,” said the old man, “how even now

the property which you have acquired is blinding your eyes,

and causing you to fail to realise your terrible position!”

“Yes, my good friend and benefactor,” wailed poor

Chichikov despairingly, and clasping Murazov by the knees.

“Yet save me if you can! The Prince is fond of you, and

would do anything for your sake.”

“No, Paul Ivanovitch; however much I might wish to

save you, and however much I might try to do so, I could

not help you as you desire; for it is to the power of an

inexorable law, and not to the authority of any one man,

that you have rendered yourself subject.”

“Satan tempted me, and has ended by making of me an

outcast from the human race!” Chichikov beat his head

against the wall and struck the table with his fist until

the blood spurted from his hand. Yet neither his head nor

his hand seemed to be conscious of the least pain.

“Calm yourself, Paul Ivanovitch,” said Murazov. “Calm

yourself, and consider how best you can make your peace

with God. Think of your miserable soul, and not of the

judgment of man.”

“I will, Athanasi Vassilievitch, I will. But what a fate is

mine! Did ever such a fate befall a man? To think of all the

patience with which I have gathered my kopecks, of all

the toil and trouble which I have endured! Yet what I

have done has not been done with the intention of rob-

bing any one, nor of cheating the Treasury. Why, then, did

I gather those kopecks? I gathered them to the end that

one day I might be able to live in plenty, and also to have

something to leave to the wife and children whom, for

the benefit and welfare of my country, I hoped eventually

to win and maintain. That was why I gathered those ko-

pecks. True, I worked by devious methods—that I fully

349

Gogoladmit; but what else could I do? And even devious meth-

ods I employed only when I saw that the straight road

would not serve my purpose so well as a crooked. More-

over, as I toiled, the appetite for those methods grew

upon me. Yet what I took I took only from the rich;

whereas villains exist who, while drawing thousands a year

from the Treasury, despoil the poor, and take from the

man with nothing even that which he has. Is it not the

cruelty of fate, therefore, that, just when I was beginning

to reap the harvest of my toil—to touch it, so to speak,

with the tip of one finger—there should have arisen a

sudden storm which has sent my barque to pieces on a

rock? My capital had nearly reached the sum of three hun-

dred thousand roubles, and a three-storied house was as

good as mine, and twice over I could have bought a country

estate. Why, then, should such a tempest have burst upon

me? Why should I have sustained such a blow? Was not

my life already like a barque tossed to and fro by the

billows? Where is Heaven’s justice—where is the reward

for all my patience, for my boundless perseverance? Three

times did I have to begin life afresh, and each time that I

lost my all I began with a single kopeck at a moment

when other men would have given themselves up to de-

spair and drink. How much did I not have to overcome.

How much did I not have to bear! Every kopeck which I

gained I had to make with my whole strength; for though,

to others, wealth may come easily, every coin of mine had

to be ‘forged with a nail worth three kopecks’ as the prov-

erb has it. With such a nail—with the nail of an iron,

unwearying perseverance—did I forge my kopecks.”

Convulsively sobbing with a grief which he could not

repress, Chichikov sank upon a chair, tore from his shoul-

ders the last ragged, trailing remnants of his frockcoat,

and hurled them from him. Then, thrusting his fingers

into the hair which he had once been so careful to pre-

serve, he pulled it out by handfuls at a time, as though he

hoped through physical pain to deaden the mental agony

which he was suffering.

Meanwhile Murazov sat gazing in silence at the unwonted

spectacle of a man who had lately been mincing with the

gait of a worldling or a military fop now writhing in di-

shevelment and despair as he poured out upon the hostile

350

Dead Soulsforces by which human ingenuity so often finds itself out-

witted a flood of invective.

“Paul Ivanovitch, Paul Ivanovitch,” at length said

Murazov, “what could not each of us rise to be did we but

devote to good ends the same measure of energy and of

patience which we bestow upon unworthy objects! How

much good would not you yourself have effected! Yet I

do not grieve so much for the fact that you have sinned

against your fellow as I grieve for the fact that you have

sinned against yourself and the rich store of gifts and

opportunities which has been committed to your care.

Though originally destined to rise, you have wandered from

the path and fallen.”

“Ah, Athanasi Vassilievitch,” cried poor Chichikov, clasping

his friends hands, “I swear to you that, if you would but

restore me my freedom, and recover for me my lost property,

I would lead a different life from this time forth. Save me,

you who alone can work my deliverance! Save me!”

“How can I do that? So to do I should need to procure

the setting aside of a law. Again, even if I were to make

the attempt, the Prince is a strict administrator, and would

refuse on any consideration to release you.”

“Yes, but for you all things are possible. It is not the

law that troubles me: with that I could find a means to

deal. It is the fact that for no offence at all I have been

cast into prison, and treated like a dog, and deprived of

my papers and dispatch-box and all my property. Save me

if you can.”

Again clasping the old man’s knees, he bedewed them

with his tears.

“Paul Ivanovitch,” said Murazov, shaking his head, “how

that property of yours still seals your eyes and ears, so

that you cannot so much as listen to the promptings of

your own soul!”

“Ah, I will think of my soul, too, if only you will save

me.”

“Paul Ivanovitch,” the old man began again, and then

stopped. For a little while there was a pause.

“Paul Ivanovitch,” at length he went on,” to save you

does not lie within my power. Surely you yourself see

that? But, so far as I can, I will endeavour to, at all

events, lighten your lot and procure your eventual re-

351

Gogollease. Whether or not I shall succeed I do not know; but

I will make the attempt. And should I, contrary to my

expectations, prove successful, I beg of you, in return for

these my efforts, to renounce all thought of benefit from

the property which you have acquired. Sincerely do I as-

sure you that, were I myself to be deprived of my prop-

erty (and my property greatly exceeds yours in magni-

tude), I should not shed a single tear. It is not the prop-

erty of which men can deprive us that matters, but the

property of which no one on earth can deprive or despoil

us. You are a man who has seen something of life—to use

your own words, you have been a barque tossed hither

and thither by tempestuous waves: yet still will there be

left to you a remnant of substance on which to live, and

therefore I beseech you to settle down in some quiet

nook where there is a church, and where none but plain,

good-hearted folk abide. Or, should you feel a yearning to

leave behind you posterity, take in marriage a good woman

who shall bring you, not money, but an aptitude for simple,

modest domestic life. But this life—the life of turmoil,

with its longings and its temptations—forget, and let it

forget you; for there is no peace in it. See for yourself

how, at every step, it brings one but hatred and treachery

and deceit.”

“Indeed, yes!” agreed the repentant Chichikov. “Gladly

will I do as you wish, since for many a day past have I been

longing to amend my life, and to engage in husbandry, and

to reorder my affairs. A demon, the tempter Satan himself,

has beguiled me and led me from the right path.”

Suddenly there had recurred to Chichikov long-unknown,

long-unfamiliar feelings. Something seemed to be striving

to come to life again in him—something dim and remote,

something which had been crushed out of his boyhood by

the dreary, deadening education of his youthful days, by

his desolate home, by his subsequent lack of family ties,

by the poverty and niggardliness of his early impressions,

by the grim eye of fate—an eye which had always seemed

to be regarding him as through a misty, mournful, frost-

encrusted window-pane, and to be mocking at his struggles

for freedom. And as these feelings came back to the peni-

tent a groan burst from his lips, and, covering his face

with his hands, he moaned: “It is all true, it is all true!”

352

Dead Souls“Of little avail are knowledge of the world and experi-

ence of men unless based upon a secure foundation,” ob-

served Murazov. “Though you have fallen, Paul Ivanovitch,

awake to better things, for as yet there is time.”

“No, no!” groaned Chichikov in a voice which made

Murazov’s heart bleed. “It is too late, too late. More and

more is the conviction gaining upon me that I am power-

less, that I have strayed too far ever to be able to do as

you bid me. The fact that I have become what I am is due

to my early schooling; for, though my father taught me

moral lessons, and beat me, and set me to copy maxims

into a book, he himself stole land from his neighbours,

and forced me to help him. I have even known him to

bring an unjust suit, and defraud the orphan whose guardian

he was! Consequently I know and feel that, though my

life has been different from his, I do not hate roguery as

I ought to hate it, and that my nature is coarse, and that

in me there is no real love for what is good, no real spark

of that beautiful instinct for well-doing which becomes a

second nature, a settled habit. Also, never do I yearn to

strive for what is right as I yearn to acquire property. This

is no more than the truth. What else could I do but con-

fess it?”

The old man sighed.

“Paul Ivanovitch,” he said, “I know that you possess

will-power, and that you possess also perseverance. A medi-

cine may be bitter, yet the patient will gladly take it when

assured that only by its means can he recover. Therefore,

if it really be that you have no genuine love for doing

good, do good by forcing yourself to do so. Thus you will

benefit yourself even more than you will benefit him for

whose sake the act is performed. Only force yourself to do

good just once and again, and, behold, you will suddenly

conceive the true love for well-doing. That is so, believe

me. ‘A kingdom is to be won only by striving,’ says the

proverb. That is to say, things are to be attained only by

putting forth one’s whole strength, since nothing short of

one’s whole strength will bring one to the desired goal.

Paul Ivanovitch, within you there is a source of strength

denied to many another man. I refer to the strength of an

iron perseverance. Cannot that help you to overcome? Most

men are weak and lack will-power, whereas I believe that

353

Gogolyou possess the power to act a hero’s part.”

Sinking deep into Chichikov’s heart, these words would

seem to have aroused in it a faint stirring of ambition, so

much so that, if it was not fortitude which shone in his

eyes, at all events it was something virile, and of much

the same nature.

“Athanasi Vassilievitch,” he said firmly, “if you will but

petition for my release, as well as for permission for me to

leave here with a portion of my property, I swear to you

on my word of honour that I will begin a new life, and buy

a country estate, and become the head of a household,

and save money, nor for myself, but for others, and do

good everywhere, and to the best of my ability, and forget

alike myself and the feasting and debauchery of town life,

and lead, instead, a plain, sober existence.”

“In that resolve may God strengthen you!” cried the old

man with unbounded joy. “And I, for my part, will do my

utmost to procure your release. And though God alone

knows whether my efforts will be successful, at all events

I hope to bring about a mitigation of your sentence. Come,

let me embrace you! How you have filled my heart with

gladness! With God’s help, I will now go to the Prince.”

And the next moment Chichikov found himself alone.

His whole nature felt shaken and softened, even as, when

the bellows have fanned the furnace to a sufficient heat,

a plate compounded even of the hardest and most fire-

resisting metal dissolves, glows, and turns to the lique-

fied state.

“I myself can feel but little,” he reflected, “but I intend

to use my every faculty to help others to feel. I myself am

but bad and worthless, but I intend to do my utmost to

set others on the right road. I myself am but an indiffer-

ent Christian, but I intend to strive never to yield to

temptation, but to work hard, and to till my land with

the sweat of my brow, and to engage only in honourable

pursuits, and to influence my fellows in the same direc-

tion. For, after all, am I so very useless? At least I could

maintain a household, for I am frugal and active and in-

telligent and steadfast. The only thing is to make up my

mind to it.”

Thus Chichikov pondered; and as he did so his half-awak-

ened energies of soul touched upon something. That is to

354

Dead Soulssay, dimly his instinct divined that every man has a duty

to perform, and that that duty may be performed here,

there, and everywhere, and no matter what the circum-

stances and the emotions and the difficulties which com-

pass a man about. And with such clearness did Chichikov

mentally picture to himself the life of grateful toil which

lies removed from the bustle of towns and the tempta-

tions which man, forgetful of the obligation of labour,

has invented to beguile an hour of idleness that almost

our hero forgot his unpleasant position, and even felt

ready to thank Providence for the calamity which had be-

fallen him, provided that it should end in his being re-

leased, and in his receiving back a portion of his property.

Presently the massive door of the cell opened to admit

a tchinovnik named Samosvitov, a robust, sensual indi-

vidual who was reputed by his comrades to be something

of a rake. Had he served in the army, he would have done

wonders, for he would have stormed any point, however

dangerous and inaccessible, and captured cannon under

the very noses of the foe; but, as it was, the lack of a

more warlike field for his energies caused him to devote

the latter principally to dissipation. Nevertheless he en-

joyed great popularity, for he was loyal to the point that,

once his word had been given, nothing would ever make

him break it. At the same time, some reason or another

led him to regard his superiors in the light of a hostile

battery which, come what might, he must breach at any

weak or unguarded spot or gap which might be capable of

being utilised for the purpose.

“We have all heard of your plight,” he began as soon as

the door had been safely closed behind him. “Yes, every

one has heard of it. But never mind. Things will yet come

right. We will do our very best for you, and act as your

humble servants in everything. Thirty thousand roubles is

our price—no more.”

“Indeed?” said Chichikov. “And, for that, shall I be com-

pletely exonerated?”

“Yes, completely, and also given some compensation

for your loss of time.”

“And how much am I to pay in return, you say?”

“Thirty thousand roubles, to be divided among ourselves, the

Governor-General’s staff, and the Governor-General’s secretary.”

355

Gogol“But how is even that to be managed, for all my effects,

including my dispatch-box, will have been sealed up and

taken away for examination?”

“In an hour’s time they will be within your hands again,”

said Samosvitov. “Shall we shake hands over the bargain?”

Chichikov did so with a beating heart, for he could

scarcely believe his ears.

“For the present, then, farewell,” concluded Samosvitov.

“I have instructed a certain mutual friend that the impor-

tant points are silence and presence of mind.”

“Hm!” thought Chichikov. “It is to my lawyer that he is

referring.”

Even when Samosvitov had departed the prisoner found

it difficult to credit all that had been said. Yet not an

hour had elapsed before a messenger arrived with his dis-

patch-box and the papers and money therein practically

undisturbed and intact! Later it came out that Samosvitov

had assumed complete authority in the matter. First, he

had rebuked the gendarmes guarding Chichikov’s effects

for lack of vigilance, and then sent word to the Superin-

tendent that additional men were required for the pur-

pose; after which he had taken the dispatch-box into his

own charge, removed from it every paper which could

possibly compromise Chichikov, sealed up the rest in a

packet, and ordered a gendarme to convey the whole to

their owner on the pretence of forwarding him sundry

garments necessary for the night. In the result Chichikov

received not only his papers, but also some warm cloth-

ing for his hypersensitive limbs. Such a swift recovery of

his treasures delighted him beyond expression, and, gath-

ering new hope, he began once more to dream of such

allurements as theatre-going and the ballet girl after whom

he had for some time past been dangling. Gradually did

the country estate and the simple life begin to recede

into the distance: gradually did the town house and the

life of gaiety begin to loom larger and larger in the fore-

ground. Oh, life, life!

Meanwhile in Government offices and chancellories there

had been set on foot a boundless volume of work. Clerical

pens slaved, and brains skilled in legal casus toiled; for

each official had the artist’s liking for the curved line in

preference to the straight. And all the while, like a hidden

356

Dead Soulsmagician, Chichikov’s lawyer imparted driving power to

that machine which caught up a man into its mechanism

before he could even look round. And the complexity of it

increased and increased, for Samosvitov surpassed himself

in importance and daring. On learning of the place of

confinement of the woman who had been arrested, he

presented himself at the doors, and passed so well for a

smart young officer of gendarmery that the sentry saluted

and sprang to attention.

“Have you been on duty long?” asked Samosvitov.

“Since this morning, your Excellency.”

“And shall you soon be relieved?”

“In three hours from now, your Excellency.”

“Presently I shall want you, so I will instruct your of-

ficer to have you relieved at once.”

“Very good, your Excellency.”

Hastening home, thereafter, at top speed, and donning

the uniform of a gendarme, with a false moustache and a

pair of false whiskers—an ensemble in which the devil

himself would not have known him, Samosvitov then made

for the gaol where Chichikov was confined, and, en route,

impressed into the service the first street woman whom he

encountered, and handed her over to the care of two young

fellows of like sort with himself. The next step was to hurry

back to the prison where the original woman had been

interned, and there to intimate to the sentry that he,

Samosvitov (with whiskers and rifle complete), had been

sent to relieve the said sentry at his post—a proceeding

which, of course, enabled the newly-arrived relief to en-

sure, while performing his self-assumed turn of duty, that

for the woman lying under arrest there should be substi-

tuted the woman recently recruited to the plot, and that

the former should then be conveyed to a place of conceal-

ment where she was highly unlikely to be discovered.

Meanwhile, Samosvitov’s feats in the military sphere were

being rivalled by the wonders worked by Chichikov’s law-

yer in the civilian field of action. As a first step, the

lawyer caused it to be intimated to the local Governor

that the Public Prosecutor was engaged in drawing up a

report to his, the local Governor’s, detriment; whereafter

the lawyer caused it to be intimated also to the Chief of

Gendarmery that a certain confidential official was en-

357

Gogolgaged in doing the same by HIM; whereafter, again, the

lawyer confided to the confidential official in question

that, owing to the documentary exertions of an official of

a still more confidential nature than the first, he (the

confidential official first-mentioned) was in a fair way to

find himself in the same boat as both the local Governor

and the Chief of Gendarmery: with the result that the

whole trio were reduced to a frame of mind in which they

were only too glad to turn to him (Samosvitov) for ad-

vice. The ultimate and farcical upshot was that report

came crowding upon report, and that such alleged doings

were brought to light as the sun had never before beheld.

In fact, the documents in question employed anything

and everything as material, even to announcing that such

and such an individual had an illegitimate son, that such

and such another kept a paid mistress, and that such and

such a third was troubled with a gadabout wife; whereby

there became interwoven with and welded into Chichikov’s

past history and the story of the dead souls such a crop of

scandals and innuendoes that by no manner of means could

any mortal decide to which of these rubbishy romances to

award the palm, since all them presented an equal claim

to that honour. Naturally, when, at length, the dossier

reached the Governor-General himself it simply flabber-

gasted the poor man; and even the exceptionally clever

and energetic secretary to whom he deputed the making

of an abstract of the same very nearly lost his reason with

the strain of attempting to lay hold of the tangled end of

the skein. It happened that just at that time the Prince

had several other important affairs on hand, and affairs of

a very unpleasant nature. That is to say, famine had made

its appearance in one portion of the province, and the

tchinovniks sent to distribute food to the people had

done their work badly; in another portion of the province

certain Raskolniki* were in a state of ferment, owing to

the spreading of a report than an Antichrist had arisen

who would not even let the dead rest, but was purchasing

them wholesale—wherefore the said Raskolniki were sum-

moning folk to prayer and repentance, and, under cover of

capturing the Antichrist in question, were bludgeoning

*Dissenters or Old Believers: i.e. members of the sect whichrefused to accept the revised version of the Church Ser-vice Books promulgated by the Patriarch Nikon in 1665.

358

Dead Soulsnon-Antichrists in batches; lastly, the peasants of a third

portion of the province had risen against the local land-

owners and superintendents of police, for the reason that

certain rascals had started a rumour that the time was

come when the peasants themselves were to become land-

owners, and to wear frockcoats, while the landowners in

being were about to revert to the peasant state, and to

take their own wares to market; wherefore one of the

local volosts*, oblivious of the fact that an order of things

of that kind would lead to a superfluity alike of landown-

ers and of superintendents of police, had refused to pay

its taxes, and necessitated recourse to forcible measures.

Hence it was in a mood of the greatest possible despon-

dency that the poor Prince was sitting plunged when word

was brought to him that the old man who had gone bail

for Chichikov was waiting to see him.

“Show him in,” said the Prince; and the old man entered.

“A fine fellow your Chichikov!” began the Prince angrily.

“You defended him, and went bail for him, even though

he had been up to business which even the lowest thief

would not have touched!”

“Pardon me, your Highness; I do not understand to what

you are referring.”

“I am referring to the matter of the fraudulent will. The

fellow ought to have been given a public flogging for it.”

“Although to exculpate Chichikov is not my intention,

might I ask you whether you do not think the case is non-

proven? At all events, sufficient evidence against him is

still lacking.”

“What? We have as chief witness the woman who per-

sonated the deceased, and I will have her interrogated in

your presence.”

Touching a bell, the Prince ordered her to be sent for.

“It is a most disgraceful affair,” he went on; “and,

ashamed though I am to have to say it, some of our

leading tchinovniks, including the local Governor himself,

have become implicated in the matter. Yet you tell me

that this Chichikov ought not to be confined among thieves

and rascals!” Clearly the Governor-General’s wrath was very

great indeed.

“Your Highness,” said Murazov, “the Governor of the town

is one of the heirs under the will: wherefore he has a certain*Fiscal districts.

359

Gogolright to intervene. Also, the fact that extraneous persons

have meddled in the matter is only what is to be expected

from human nature. A rich woman dies, and no exact, regu-

lar disposition of her property is made. Hence there comes

flocking from every side a cloud of fortune hunters. What

else could one expect? Such is human nature.”

“Yes, but why should such persons go and commit fraud?”

asked the Prince irritably. “I feel as though not a single

honest tchinovnik were available—as though every one of

them were a rogue.”

“Your Highness, which of us is altogether beyond re-

proach? The tchinovniks of our town are human beings,

and no more. Some of them are men of worth, and nearly

all of them men skilled in business—though also, unfor-

tunately, largely inter-related.”

“Now, tell me this, Athanasi Vassilievitch,” said the

Prince, “for you are about the only honest man of my

acquaintance. What has inspired in you such a penchant

for defending rascals?”

“This,” replied Murazov. “Take any man you like of the

persons whom you thus term rascals. That man none the

less remains a human being. That being so, how can one

refuse to defend him when all the time one knows that

half his errors have been committed through ignorance

and stupidity? Each of us commits faults with every step

that we take; each of us entails unhappiness upon others

with every breath that we draw—and that although we

may have no evil intention whatever in our minds. Your

Highness himself has, before now, committed an injustice

of the gravest nature.”

“I have?” cried the Prince, taken aback by this unex-

pected turn given to the conversation.

Murazov remained silent for a moment, as though he

were debating something in his thoughts. Then he said:

“Nevertheless it is as I say. You committed the injustice

in the case of the lad Dierpiennikov.”

“What, Athanasi Vassilievitch? The fellow had infringed

one of the Fundamental Laws! He had been found guilty

of treason!”

“I am not seeking to justify him; I am only asking you

whether you think it right that an inexperienced youth

who had been tempted and led away by others should

360

Dead Soulshave received the same sentence as the man who had

taken the chief part in the affair. That is to say, although

Dierpiennikov and the man Voron-Drianni received an equal

measure of punishment, their criminality was not equal.”

“If,” exclaimed the Prince excitedly, “you know anything

further concerning the case, for God’s sake tell it me at

once. Only the other day did I forward a recommendation

that St. Petersburg should remit a portion of the sentence.”

“Your Highness,” replied Murazov, “I do not mean that

I know of anything which does not lie also within your

own cognisance, though one circumstance there was which

might have told in the lad’s favour had he not refused to

admit it, lest another should suffer injury. All that I have

in my mind is this. On that occasion were you not a little

over-hasty in coming to a conclusion? You will under-

stand, of course, that I am judging only according to my

own poor lights, and for the reason that on more than

one occasion you have urged me to be frank. In the days

when I myself acted as a chief of gendarmery I came in

contact with a great number of accused—some of them

bad, some of them good; and in each case I found it well

also to consider a man’s past career, for the reason that,

unless one views things calmly, instead of at once decry-

ing a man, he is apt to take alarm, and to make it impos-

sible thereafter to get any real confession from him. If,

on the other hand, you question a man as friend might

question friend, the result will be that straightway he will

tell you everything, nor ask for mitigation of his penalty,

nor bear you the least malice, in that he will understand

that it is not you who have punished him, but the law.”

The Prince relapsed into thought; until presently there

entered a young tchinovnik. Portfolio in hand, this offi-

cial stood waiting respectfully. Care and hard work had

already imprinted their insignia upon his fresh young face;

for evidently he had not been in the Service for nothing.

As a matter of fact, his greatest joy was to labour at a

tangled case, and successfully to unravel it.

[At this point a long hiatus occurs in the original.]

“I will send corn to the localities where famine is worst,”

said Murazov, “for I understand that sort of work better

361

Gogolthan do the tchinovniks, and will personally see to the

needs of each person. Also, if you will allow me, your

Highness, I will go and have a talk with the Raskolniki.

They are more likely to listen to a plain man than to an

official. God knows whether I shall succeed in calming

them, but at least no tchinovnik could do so, for officials

of the kind merely draw up reports and lose their way

among their own documents—with the result that noth-

ing comes of it. Nor will I accept from you any money for

these purposes, since I am ashamed to devote as much as

a thought to my own pocket at a time when men are

dying of hunger. I have a large stock of grain lying in my

granaries; in addition to which, I have sent orders to Si-

beria that a new consignment shall be forwarded me be-

fore the coming summer.”

“Of a surety will God reward you for your services,

Athanasi Vassilievitch! Not another word will I say to you

on the subject, for you yourself feel that any words from

me would be inadequate. Yet tell me one thing: I refer to

the case of which you know. Have I the right to pass over

the case? Also, would it be just and honourable on my

part to let the offending tchinovniks go unpunished?”

“Your Highness, it is impossible to return a definite

answer to those two questions: and the more so because

many rascals are at heart men of rectitude. Human prob-

lems are difficult things to solve. Sometimes a man may

be drawn into a vicious circle, so that, having once en-

tered it, he ceases to be himself.”

“But what would the tchinovniks say if I allowed the

case to be passed over? Would not some of them turn up

their noses at me, and declare that they have effected my

intimidation? Surely they would be the last persons in the

world to respect me for my action?”

“Your Highness, I think this: that your best course would

be to call them together, and to inform them that you

know everything, and to explain to them your personal

attitude (exactly as you have explained it to me), and to

end by at once requesting their advice and asking them

what each of them would have done had he been placed

in similar circumstances.”

“What? You think that those tchinovniks would be so

accessible to lofty motives that they would cease thereaf-

362

Dead Soulster to be venal and meticulous? I should be laughed at for

my pains.”

“I think not, your Highness. Even the baser section of

humanity possesses a certain sense of equity. Your wisest

plan, your Highness, would be to conceal nothing and to

speak to them as you have just spoken to me. If, at present,

they imagine you to be ambitious and proud and unap-

proachable and self-assured, your action would afford them

an opportunity of seeing how the case really stands. Why

should you hesitate? You would but be exercising your

undoubted right. Speak to them as though delivering not

a message of your own, but a message from God.”

“I will think it over,” the Prince said musingly, “and mean-

while I thank you from my heart for your good advice.”

“Also, I should order Chichikov to leave the town,” sug-

gested Murazov.

“Yes, I will do so. Tell him from me that he is to depart

hence as quickly as possible, and that the further he should

remove himself, the better it will be for him. Also, tell

him that it is only owing to your efforts that he has

received a pardon at my hands.”

Murazov bowed, and proceeded from the Prince’s pres-

ence to that of Chichikov. He found the prisoner cheer-

fully enjoying a hearty dinner which, under hot covers,

had been brought him from an exceedingly excellent

kitchen. But almost the first words which he uttered

showed Murazov that the prisoner had been having deal-

ings with the army of bribe-takers; as also that in those

transactions his lawyer had played the principal part.

“Listen, Paul Ivanovitch,” the old man said. “I bring

you your freedom, but only on this condition—that you

depart out of the town forthwith. Therefore gather to-

gether your effects, and waste not a moment, lest worse

befall you. Also, of all that a certain person has contrived

to do on your behalf I am aware; wherefore let me tell

you, as between ourselves, that should the conspiracy

come to light, nothing on earth can save him, and in his

fall he will involve others rather then be left unaccompa-

nied in the lurch, and not see the guilt shared. How is it

that when I left you recently you were in a better frame of

mind than you are now? I beg of you not to trifle with the

matter. Ah me! what boots that wealth for which men

363

Gogoldispute and cut one another’s throats? Do they think that

it is possible to prosper in this world without thinking of

the world to come? Believe me when I say that, until a

man shall have renounced all that leads humanity to con-

tend without giving a thought to the ordering of spiritual

wealth, he will never set his temporal goods either upon a

satisfactory foundation. Yes, even as times of want and

scarcity may come upon nations, so may they come upon

individuals. No matter what may be said to the contrary,

the body can never dispense with the soul. Why, then, will

you not try to walk in the right way, and, by thinking no

longer of dead souls, but only of your only living one,

regain, with God’s help, the better road? I too am leaving

the town to-morrow. Hasten, therefore, lest, bereft of my

assistance, you meet with some dire misfortune.”

And the old man departed, leaving Chichikov plunged in

thought. Once more had the gravity of life begun to loom

large before him.

“Yes, Murazov was right,” he said to himself. “It is time

that I were moving.”

Leaving the prison—a warder carrying his effects in his

wake—he found Selifan and Petrushka overjoyed at seeing

their master once more at liberty.

“Well, good fellows?” he said kindly. “And now we must

pack and be off.”

“True, true, Paul Ivanovitch,” agreed Selifan. “And by this

time the roads will have become firmer, for much snow has

fallen. Yes, high time is it that we were clear of the town. So

weary of it am I that the sight of it hurts my eyes.”

“Go to the coachbuilder’s,” commanded Chichikov, “and

have sledge-runners fitted to the koliaska.”

Chichikov then made his way into the town—though

not with the object of paying farewell visits (in view of

recent events, that might have given rise to some awk-

wardness), but for the purpose of paying an unobtrusive

call at the shop where he had obtained the cloth for his

latest suit. There he now purchased four more arshins of

the same smoked-grey-shot-with-flame-colour material as

he had had before, with the intention of having it made

up by the tailor who had fashioned the previous costume;

and by promising double remuneration he induced the

tailor in question so to hasten the cutting out of the

364

Dead Soulsgarments that, through sitting up all night over the work,

the man might have the whole ready by break of day. True,

the goods were delivered a trifle after the appointed hour,

yet the following morning saw the coat and breeches com-

pleted; and while the horses were being put to, Chichikov

tried on the clothes, and found them equal to the previ-

ous creation, even though during the process he caught

sight of a bald patch on his head, and was led mournfully

to reflect: “Alas! Why did I give way to such despair?

Surely I need not have torn my hair out so freely?”

Then, when the tailor had been paid, our hero left the

town. But no longer was he the old Chichikov—he was

only a ruin of what he had been, and his frame of mind

might have been compared to a building recently pulled

down to make room for a new one, while the new one had

not yet been erected owing to the non-receipt of the

plans from the architect. Murazov, too, had departed, but

at an earlier hour, and in a tilt-waggon with Ivan Potapitch.

An hour later the Governor-General issued to all and

sundry officials a notice that, on the occasion of his de-

parture for St. Petersburg, he would be glad to see the

corps of tchinovniks at a private meeting. Accordingly all

ranks and grades of officialdom repaired to his residence,

and there awaited—not without a certain measure of trepi-

dation and of searching of heart—the Governor-General’s

entry. When that took place he looked neither clear nor

dull. Yet his bearing was proud, and his step assured. The

tchinovniks bowed—some of them to the waist, and he

answered their salutations with a slight inclination of the

head. Then he spoke as follows:

“Since I am about to pay a visit to St. Petersburg, I

have thought it right to meet you, and to explain to you

privately my reasons for doing so. An affair of a most

scandalous character has taken place in our midst. To

what affair I am referring I think most of those present

will guess. Now, an automatic process has led to that

affair bringing about the discovery of other matters. Those

matters are no less dishonourable than the primary one;

and to that I regret to have to add that there stand

involved in them certain persons whom I had hitherto

believed to be honourable. Of the object aimed at by those

who have complicated matters to the point of making

365

Gogoltheir resolution almost impossible by ordinary methods I

am aware; as also I am aware of the identity of the ring-

leader, despite the skill with which he has sought to con-

ceal his share in the scandal. But the principal point is,

that I propose to decide these matters, not by formal

documentary process, but by the more summary process

of court-martial, and that I hope, when the circumstances

have been laid before his Imperial Majesty, to receive from

him authority to adopt the course which I have men-

tioned. For I conceive that when it has become impos-

sible to resolve a case by civil means, and some of the

necessary documents have been burnt, and attempts have

been made (both through the adduction of an excess of

false and extraneous evidence and through the framing of

fictitious reports) to cloud an already sufficiently obscure

investigation with an added measure of complexity,—when

all these circumstances have arisen, I conceive that the

only possible tribunal to deal with them is a military tri-

bunal. But on that point I should like your opinion.”

The Prince paused for a moment or two, as though await-

ing a reply; but none came, seeing that every man had his

eyes bent upon the floor, and many of the audience had

turned white in the face.

“Then,” he went on, “I may say that I am aware also of a

matter which those who have carried it through believe to

lie only within the cognisance of themselves. The particu-

lars of that matter will not be set forth in documentary

form, but only through process of myself acting as plaintiff

and petitioner, and producing none but ocular evidence.”

Among the throng of tchinovniks some one gave a start,

and thereby caused others of the more apprehensive sort

to fall to trembling in their shoes.

“Without saying does it go that the prime conspirators

ought to undergo deprivation of rank and property, and

that the remainder ought to be dismissed from their posts;

for though that course would cause a certain proportion

of the innocent to suffer with the guilty, there would

seem to be no other course available, seeing that the

affair is one of the most disgraceful nature, and calls aloud

for justice. Therefore, although I know that to some my

action will fail to serve as a lesson, since it will lead to

their succeeding to the posts of dismissed officials, as

366

Dead Soulswell as that others hitherto considered honourable will

lose their reputation, and others entrusted with new re-

sponsibilities will continue to cheat and betray their

trust,—although all this is known to me, I still have no

choice but to satisfy the claims of justice by proceeding

to take stern measures. I am also aware that I shall be

accused of undue severity; but, lastly, I am aware that it

is my duty to put aside all personal feeling, and to act as

the unconscious instrument of that retribution which jus-

tice demands.”

Over ever face there passed a shudder. Yet the Prince

had spoken calmly, and not a trace of anger or any other

kind of emotion had been visible on his features.

“Nevertheless,” he went on, “the very man in whose

hands the fate of so many now lies, the very man whom

no prayer for mercy could ever have influenced, himself

desires to make a request of you. Should you grant that

request, all will be forgotten and blotted out and par-

doned, for I myself will intercede with the Throne on your

behalf. That request is this. I know that by no manner of

means, by no preventive measures, and by no penalties

will dishonesty ever be completely extirpated from our

midst, for the reason that its roots have struck too deep,

and that the dishonourable traffic in bribes has become a

necessity to, even the mainstay of, some whose nature is

not innately venal. Also, I know that, to many men, it is

an impossibility to swim against the stream. Yet now, at

this solemn and critical juncture, when the country is

calling aloud for saviours, and it is the duty of every citi-

zen to contribute and to sacrifice his all, I feel that I

cannot but issue an appeal to every man in whom a Rus-

sian heart and a spark of what we understand by the word

‘nobility’ exist. For, after all, which of us is more guilty

than his fellow? It may be to me the greatest culpability

should be assigned, in that at first I may have adopted

towards you too reserved an attitude, that I may have

been over-hasty in repelling those who desired but to

serve me, even though of their services I did not actually

stand in need. Yet, had they really loved justice and the

good of their country, I think that they would have been

less prone to take offence at the coldness of my attitude,

but would have sacrificed their feelings and their person-

367

Gogolality to their superior convictions. For hardly can it be

that I failed to note their overtures and the loftiness of

their motives, or that I would not have accepted any wise

and useful advice proffered. At the same time, it is for a

subordinate to adapt himself to the tone of his superior,

rather than for a superior to adapt himself to the tone of

his subordinate. Such a course is at once more regular and

more smooth of working, since a corps of subordinates

has but one director, whereas a director may have a hun-

dred subordinates. But let us put aside the question of

comparative culpability. The important point is, that be-

fore us all lies the duty of rescuing our fatherland. Our

fatherland is suffering, not from the incursion of a score

of alien tongues, but from our own acts, in that, in addi-

tion to the lawful administration, there has grown up a

second administration possessed of infinitely greater powers

than the system established by law. And that second ad-

ministration has established its conditions, fixed its tariff

of prices, and published that tariff abroad; nor could any

ruler, even though the wisest of legislators and adminis-

trators, do more to correct the evil than limit it in the

conduct of his more venal tchinovniks by setting over

them, as their supervisors, men of superior rectitude. No,

until each of us shall come to feel that, just as arms were

taken up during the period of the upheaval of nations, so

now each of us must make a stand against dishonesty, all

remedies will end in failure. As a Russian, therefore—as

one bound to you by consanguinity and identity of blood—

I make to you my appeal. I make it to those of you who

understand wherein lies nobility of thought. I invite those

men to remember the duty which confronts us, whatsoever

our respective stations; I invite them to observe more closely

their duty, and to keep more constantly in mind their obli-

gations of holding true to their country, in that before us

the future looms dark, and that we can scarcely… .”

[Here the manuscript of the original

comes abruptly to an end.]

To return to the Electronic Classics Series page,go to

http://www.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/jimspdf.htm

To return to the Gogol page,go to

http://www.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/gogol.htm